


The Boundary, Broken

by stevieraebarnes



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Detective Comics (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alien Invasion, Bat Family, Blood and Injury, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Canon-Typical Violence, Confession Under Fire, Discussion of Death, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent, M/M, casefic, fathers and sons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2019-08-21 06:10:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16571147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevieraebarnes/pseuds/stevieraebarnes
Summary: “At least Nightwing is not alone...even if it is the Red Hood.”Batman rests a hand over his son’s to acknowledge him and then releases, moving in the direction of the Batmobile. He needs the Cave.“No, Nightwing is not alone,” Batman says. “But now two of my children are beyond my reach.”Or, in which an alien invasion leaves Nightwing and Red Hood trapped in Blüdhaven's quarantine.





	1. The Invasion

On the dark streets of Gotham, Batman delivers his fist against the assassin's teeth.

The body crumples to the ground, joining the others the Batman has already dealt with, as two more step from the shadows and poise themselves for hand to hand combat.

“An All-You-Can-Hit buffet. My favorite.” Batman lunges for the person to his right, managing to grab a fistful of fabric while inviting the person on his left to come closer. He keeps hold of the fabric as he shifts the weight on his feet, bringing both hired killers into his orbit where Batman strikes both of them down. Two more bodies litter the asphalt; an arrangement bathed in an orange glow from the streetlamps on to Batman’s collection.

The comm line sparks to life and there’s a quick rustle and a draw of breath.

“Is no one going to say anything about B’s buffet comment?”

“Hood. Comms are for emergencies only.”

“That line delivery constitutes an emergency, B. Plus, you said it with the channel open. You’re losing it, old man.”

Another voice joins the fray. In the background of the third link up there’s a suspicious smacking sound, a groan of pain, and a huff of laughter.

“I kinda liked it.”

“You would, Nightwing,” Hood answers. “At least we all know everyone in this family came by their terrible catchphrases honestly.”

“Robin. Report,” Batman interrupts.

A young voice crackles, then evens out.

“Volleys of hostiles keep coming in waves.” There’s the sound of feet shuffling and a grunt. “I’m down a block from your location, Batman.”

“I can see that. Circle back to me. Red Robin. Report.”

“New York is still under heavy attack. We’ve got our work cut out for us here.”

“Keep us updated. When backup becomes available, I’ll send them your way.”

“Thanks, B.”

“Nightwing…”

“Yeah, yeah, report.”

“Night. Wing.”

“Growling your displeasure isn’t comm protocol, B.”

“Report,” Batman says through gritted teeth.

“It’s Blüdhaven,” Nightwing says like it’s the age-old answer to everything. “I can’t tell if the destruction left behind is old or new.”

Red Hood barks a laugh over the comms.

“Hood,” Batman warns.

“Jesus Christ, B. Let us have some fun.”

“I’m still facing a large number of antagonists, but it’s nothing I can’t handle,” Nightwing continues.

“Ah, Blüdhaven. Getting trashed even with all the success it’s made. It’s like one step forward, two steps back over there.”

“Hey, don’t knock my city, Hood. We’ve been making great strides and obviously these killers are jealous of all the new social programs their kids could be involved with.” There’s a loud _thwack!_ over the line and a muffled comment from Nightwing. “I got that guy _good_.”

“Red Hood. Report.”

“The Bowery’s calming down. I’ve stationed some of my favorite hard hitting crime lords throughout the neighborhoods to take out any more of these symbol wearing murder harpies.”

“Wow, Hood,” Red Robin cuts through. “Way to fight fire with fire.”

“You just now noticing, Red? I thought you were the smart one.”

Damian’s voice, clipped in rising anger, breaks into the listeners’ ears. “What ludicrousness!  Obviously I’m the smart one!”

“Robin. Enough.”

Jason continues on. “Anyone know what the symbol means yet?”

A brisk, chipper voice: “I’ve got some info on those concerns.”

“Oh, thank god for Oracle.”

“Hood. Second warning.”

“For what??”

Oracle relays her information through the comms. “The symbol shows a vertical line capped with a centered, zigzagging line similar to the letter ‘w.’”

“Yeah, we know. It’s on the shoulder of every person clad in black throwing punches at us. I mean, can you even be a secret society and still advertise your logo? Also, stay in your lane, man. Are they a secret society? Or a villainous league of killers for hire? I don’t care, just pick one, damn.”

“Hood,” Nightwing says in a petty imitation of Batman. “Final warning.”

“Shut the fuck up, N.”

“Hood. Language. This is a shared line.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Aw, he doesn’t mean it, B. He knows I’m just messing with him.”

“Emergencies only, Goldie. Final warning,” Red Hood states back.

“I should not have to remind you to stick to code names by now. Oracle?”

“Oh, are we done? Because I can wait for Hood and N to finish whatever this is.”

“Oracle, don’t you start.”

“The symbol’s a rune. Northumbrian to be exact. It represents the yew tree.”

“What does it mean?”

“Dust.”

“Dust?”

“And death. And the grave… An end and a new beginning.”

“Well that’s fucking ominous.”

“Red Hood,” Batman says. “Go help Red Robin in New York.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll get there. I just need to make a quick stop first.”

“Hood. New York. Now.”

“I’m going!”

Batman turns his head at the sound of Robin making his way towards him, while three assassins with the symbol stitched into their clothing desperately try to take down the boy. In his belt, Batman fingers a batarang and throws it into the collarbone of one of them.

He watches his son throw an elbow into the adam’s apple of another, spring upon the man’s back as he clutches at his throat, then jump and drop down boots first onto the third and final assailant.

Robin straightens up and turns to face his father.

“Batman. We might be running out of mysterious idiots to fight.”

“Then we’re doing our job.”

“This one is boring though. What’s the point of fighting obscure goons who keep engaging us in hand to hand combat? Imbeciles!”

“Be prepared. There may be more to this than we know…”

A rock the size of a golf ball strikes Batman’s shoulder before continuing straight into the ground. He squats down to get a better look at what hit him and picks it up. It’s spherical, but not smooth. The rock is pockmarked and covered in a white, powdery ash. Batman lifts the rock a bit higher, closer to his face, when the pain from the impact in his shoulder hits. He turns his attention to the batsuit. It sports a gouge, with a bit of smoulder fleeing from the shorn material edges, and some ash and sediment mixed together from where the rock struck him. As he calculates the speed and force necessary to open his batsuit up like a can opener, there’s another blunt impact, then another. Batman looks to the sky and sees the darkness illuminated with speeding projectiles, aflame and falling to earth like rain.

“Robin! Get to cover!”

Batman and Robin run from the streets, dragging some of the unconscious bodies with them, and together with backs against a building’s stucco exterior, they watch as the meteorites take chunks out of the eight lane downtown street they have just evacuated. They stand side by side, silently in awe of the display before them. It’s a fête of light, smoke, and erupting blasts of tarmac.

“Holey asphalt, Batman,” Damian murmurs to himself at the sight. Batman presses his mouth into a grimace, but laughter breaks the silence despite the Batman’s mood.

“Finally!” Nightwing crows. “My true Robin heir shows their full potential!”

“I’m not your heir! Besides, I was mocking you.”

“We’re in the field,” Batman interrupts. “Act like it.”

“You started it, B.” Nightwing gives a sharp _ow!_ , laments the rocks crashing from the sky, then continues. “I mean, what were you _thinking_ with that ‘All-You-Can-Hit’ line?”

“Nightwing,” Batman warns.

“And then to deny your own progeny of their quips? Quipping in the field is a time honored tradition.”

Batman adjusts the scope of his lenses, fixed on a spot of the raging night sky. “Silence. Now.”

Oracle crackles onto the line. “Almost as time honored as B telling us to knock it off, N. ”

“Hm. Well, that’s a good point, O. We’re such a traditional family.”

“Meteorites look like they’re easing up,” Oracle says. “Good thing, too. CCTV is showing lots of damage even though most of these look to be about the size of a pea.”

“O, are you saying we were hit by _peateorites?_ ”

Oracle groans loudly.

“Something’s coming.”

The chatter ceases. “Repeat and clarify, B?”

“Incoming large projectile, unknown nature.” The listeners turn their heads back to the sky, putting their resources to work.

“I’ve got eyes on the big one,” Nightwing responds after a few seconds.

Batman observes the trajectory, watches it transform from unknown to meteor. The speed. The tail spewing off the back; a delightful treat of the atmosphere’s oxygen and nitrogen. He watches. And then he knows.

“Nightwing. My estimates have impact at Blüdhaven.”

There’s a micro hesitation, enough to proclaim even the well-oiled machine of the Bats isn’t prepared for the outcome ahead of them.

“Yeah, it looks that way to me, too,” Nightwing says.

“Oracle?” Batman means for her name to signify a demand of answers. It comes out as a question, laced with hope she can provide a differing second opinion. Oracle, with her superior intellect, superior computation, and creative ways to solve a problem... Surely she can solve this one, too. When Oracle’s voice comes back over the line her answer is thorough, peppered with reference calculations, and ultimately the same as his.

Batman bows his head and closes his eyes, mentally swearing. He barely catches a soft “ _god damnit_ ” over the comm line. He feels a punch on his arm and snaps his eyes open.

“It’s withstood ablation and I’m measuring it as an impactor,” Oracle says. “It’s too big to lose it’s hyper-velocity…”

“Look,” Robin says to his father.

“B? Are you seeing this?” Nightwing’s voice, resonant of disbelief, fills his head.

The object from space -- hurtling towards the Earth’s surface -- has slowed visibly, obeying laws of physics not seen on this planet.

“How?” Oracle asks, then begins the attempt to answer the unknown herself. “There must be some other force at work here. Something is in control. Either something like the Lantern Corp, or maybe the meteoroid isn’t actually a meteoroid. We can’t rule out a combination of factors, either.”

Nightwing’s voice breaks through. “B, is it the Corp? Did they somehow catch wind of this and take a detour to our system?”

“I’ve had no communication from them. And they would have announced their presence. We have to assume Superman and Captain Marvel are still off-world with the Lanterns,  _well_ outside our solar system...and that we’re on our own.”

“Perfect timing,” Tim chimes in. “New York’s slowing down, by the way. But it figures an invasion from space is when our best heroes to combat such a scenario _are gone_.”

Batman lets out a huff to himself, but Robin hears it. He cocks his head to peer at the man standing next to him as suspicions take root. It is perfect timing.

“Trajectory looks the same,” Nightwing offers. “And it’s still coming in too fast, despite the slow down.”

“I’ve got it as still on course for a Blüdhaven impact. N, you need to do something. It looks like quite the bolide…”

“I know. I’m ordering people inside. There’s no way we can evacuate. We’re gonna try hunkering down.”

“ _You_ could evacuate.”

Damian’s voice cuts through the line like a surprisingly harsh musical note struck by accident.

“I need to make sure I help as many people as possible, Robin. Then I’ll take care of myself.”

“You won’t,” Damian replies back, but it’s mumbled under his breath in concesion.

“N. It’s almost upon you.”

The meteor, still falling to Earth at rapid speed, promptly slows again with an unnatural lurch, as if the meteor's journey was a planned commute instead of simply a blazing rock flung out in space with no purpose except chaos. Just before impact with the ground, the rock hovers and then falls to the ground with a sense of finality. The area trembles at the contact, and in the middle of a parking lot for Blüdhaven’s financial district rests a meteorite the size of a house.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Nightwing announces. “Making my way there.”

Batman and Robin venture out of their place of safety, back into the streets. Batman lets out his breath, abruptly aware he’d been holding it.

They leave the assailants they had managed to drag sheltered against the building exterior and walk past the bodies of those they left in the street.

“How many people do you think were caught unawares?” Robin asks, anger in his voice. He sees the assailants in the streets, but thinks of the innocent civilians who have surely found themselves in the same predicament: out in the open, unmoving.

Robin doesn’t receive an answer to his question.

“Whoa,” Nightwing instead says over the comms. “Uh, so the huge hunk of space rock is moving again. I mean, not traveling anywhere, but there’s clear movement.” There’s a pause. “It’s opening… There’s something alive!”

A few gasps escape over the open channel.

“Nightwing, what do you mean _something?_ ”

“There are biologicals! Multiples. Living things are spilling out of the rock. They’re...they’re attacking! I need backup! I need backup immediately!”

“On our way, Nightwing.” Batman’s tone is even, reassuring. Then, to the others listening in, “I need the entire family and any affiliates granted access to this channel to make for Blüdhaven.”

“Copy, B.”

“Target is Blüdhaven. Understood. Making way.”

“Belay that order.”

The voice is deep, smooth, and patronizing. Silence falls over the comms -- the listeners waiting for their mentor -- until Batman speaks out.

“Luthor,” Batman growls. “No.”

“This is the only warning you’ll get.”

“Luthor, you can’t.”

“We’re sealing off Blüdhaven. Don’t send any more Bats.”

“Don’t do this! That’s my son in there! Nightwing, get out now. Nightwing. Do you copy?”

“I’m here, B.”

Bruce closes his eyes and allows a brief sigh at what he knows must be going through Dick’s mind. “Don’t stay,” he says.

“You know me, B.” His words are clear despite the background noise of what sounds like the chaos of a city which has just become home to hostile alien life.

“It’s why I’m asking you not to stay.”

“There are still a lot of people here who need my help.”

“You can’t do this alone.”

“He’s not alone,” comes a modulated voice. “Or did you forget about me?”

“Red Hood.”

“Present and accounted for. Oh, and in the city limits of Blüd.”

“That’s not your assigned area. You’re supposed to be heading for New York.”

“And I told you I was making a stopover. Thought I’d give Boy Wonder a hand.”

“Do you have a visual?”

“Not yet.”

“Find him, Hood. N, stay with him. Stay together.”

“I will, B. Don’t worry, I’ll…”

Silence.

Whatever Dick means to promise hangs unknown in the ears of the listeners.

“He can’t hear you anymore,” Luthor says over their own Bat comms, and Batman seethes at the superfluous statement. “The city is now sealed and quarantined.”

“You bastard,” Batman says without thinking. “It didn’t have to be this way.”

“I made a call. We can’t allow those things loose on the country. I’m sorry for your son and affiliate. I’ll contact you when we’re ready to present some ideas on--”

Bruce kills the link in anger.

Damian watches his father stare off past the street, past the buildings, past the destruction laid on the East Coast by organized cultists and extraterrestrial bits of nickel and iron. He places a hand on his father’s forearm. “At least Nightwing is not alone...even if it is the Red Hood.”

Batman rests a hand over his son’s to acknowledge him and then releases, moving in the direction of the Batmobile. He needs the Cave.

“No, Nightwing is not alone,” Batman says. “But now two of my children are beyond my reach.”


	2. The Boundary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason and Dick deal with Bludhaven while Bruce deals with Lex Luthor.

The rumble of Jason’s motorcycle reverberates through the air in an eerie manner, the sound hitting the force field separating Blüdhaven from the rest of the world. He had seen the shields activate from a safe distance and watched as power lines were sliced by the energy enclosing them, leaving behind sparks from the live wires and panicked chaos. Jason hopes the people inspecting the barrier gave up trying to escape and found shelter; no sense poking at something President Luthor developed with a stick.

As Jason makes his way further into the city, the cars in the street grow denser -- like a long abandoned game of Tetris. There are vehicles of all shapes and sizes jammed into each other at odd angles and Jason makes his way to a clear section of sidewalk. Soon, even that is too cluttered: with broken glass and public waste bins prone on their sides… with people fleeing in every direction. He’s not here for them, but the idea of injuring another at the expense of the mission, even a mission as important as this, eats at him and Jason wants to rub at what he imagines is a bit of tarnish on his soul as he barely dodges a pedestrian in flight. There are too many erratic variables for even his excellent skill and response time, so he falls back on what he’s trained to do next. He finds what he determines is an optometrist's building, with its door wrenched off, and guides his bike inside a large carpeted room with ugly chairs and glass cabinets filled with eyewear frames. He kills the engine, using the heel of his boot to push down the stand and roll his bike back on to it. With a key fished out of a pocket, Jason unlocks one of the saddlebag compartments and rummages through the med kit inside; grabbing fistfuls of medical necessities and stowing them on his person. From the corner of his eye he thinks he sees movement as he locks the compartment back up.

He yells out a, “Touch my bike and you die” while exiting as a precaution.

He makes it to the outskirts of the city center, with downtown only a handful of blocks away. The number of people he passes thin considerably the closer he gets to ground zero. In the distance, he can see a section -- the medical district, he thinks -- where the emergency lights blink a slow, repetitive warning to the rest of the cityscape. The buildings provide the ‘Haven with its unique skyline loom in low-hanging darkness, illuminated only by the faint red glow of the energy field above and encapsulates them all like a bell jar. To Jason’s left, the industrial section is quiet; indicative of the city's otherworldly problems. This time of night, the oil refineries would light up the sky by flaring the stacks illegally -- hopeful that the off-hour timing would mean less people to report their wrongdoing. Instead, the stacks stand silent. Jason turns to investigate the terrain on his right and spies movement. Small flutterings here and there. A door closing. A figure running to safety.  A slithering motion along the ground. From far away, Jason can hear shrill shrieking, but his destination up ahead sits in quiet, having already endured the worst.

He jogs down the middle of a mainstreet artery, to the last ping of a location the Bats got, and takes in the mess laid out before him. It’s nothing short of death and destruction. Rubble. Fire. A hand with fingers curled open, a lingering invitation for someone with warmth and strength to grasp it. Jason feels a twinge of nausea in his gut and wills it away to keep moving. Whatever progress the city has made towards changing its laughable reputation went up in flames the minute the meteorites hit the ground. Not that Jason particularly gives a damn about a bad reputation.

 _Neither does Dick,_ Jason thinks, looking around the streets of Dick's home -- always full of disarray, but somehow still beloved by the man -- and the reason why he's in this city surges, enabling Jason to focus on what needs to be done.

“Hey, Big Bird. Where are you?” he tries after adjusting some settings on his helmet.

The people of the city are nowhere to be seen now, and Jason finally spots what Nightwing had identified as biologicals over the comms. An “Ugh, eww!” escapes from his mouth before he remembers his cool exterior, though no one seems to be around to notice, and he switches over to grumbling noises instead. As he enters the close vicinity of his destination, the streets are swiftly cluttered with long, writhing limbs. They appear to be pure muscle with a sharp, barbed end; something Jason notes as he watches one of the twisting creatures snap a thick branch off an ash tree -- one of many which decorates the side of the street. For alien creatures worshipped by cult nature enthusiasts, they seem to destroy indiscriminately between organics and inorganics alike.

“Nightwing, what's your location?” Jason tries again. He's broadcasting on a closed loop that includes his tech and Dick’s.

“N, I'm pinging your suit. Answer.”

Jason gives off a scowl as two of the creatures launch themselves at him. He manages to pull a knife and slice one of them while the other wraps around Jason’s forearm. It begins to squeeze to the point of sharp pain before he brings his knife again and bisects the slimy bastard almost the entire length.

“Red Hood to Nightwing. Please respond. Over.”

Five more creatures fling themselves at Jason while one manages to encircle his ankle before Jason can fend off the others and deal with the pain and blood coming from his calf where his greaves don’t cover.

“Shit. Are these buggers burrowing?”

His fist goes through another one as it leaps from a lamp pole and there is an explosion of thick fluid as what’s left of the creature falls to the ground.

“Nightwing.”

No response.

“Nightwing. N. Night. Wing. Ow, fuck. NIGHTWING!” Jason yells between gutting and stomping at the things. He takes a pause from establishing oral contact to inspect a recent attempt one of the things made to gouge him; the way Jason dragged the last alien off his arm has left a long, deep abrasion. He frowns. The punctures and lacerations are at least stitchable.

He sees an unpleasant slinking movement near him, and it’s enough for Jason to lose any remaining patience. He floods the comm with his voice.

“N. N. N. N. God damnit answer me NOW!”

“Jesus, Hood. Calm down, I'm here. I just got on to your closed loop. Low tech. I like it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m covered in giant, alien leeches that can go through flesh and it's my ass on the line if I don't find you. So do me a favor and tell me where you are.”

“Just follow the sounds of disgust I make every time I have to touch one with my hand.”

“What about your precious escrima sticks?”

“These delightful guests made a nice pile of kindling with them. Did you bring a lighter? Or some flint? An oily bag of cheetos? I could go for a barbeque.”

“Gross. Where are you?”

“West of the Port Authority. The two hundred block of Merchant Street.”

“How'd you end up out there??”

“Ow. Shit. People needed help over here. Does it matter? These things can really take a chunk out of you.”

“Yeah, I discovered that on my own, thanks. On my way.”

“I can't believe how worried about me you were.”

“Like I said. It's my ass on the line. Are there any more people at your location?”

There’s no immediate response and Jason gives Dick another second.

“N? Are there anymore people?”

Still no response.

“Shit, will you answer your bazillion dollar bat comm we’re using as walkie talkies?!?”

Laughter. “You _are_ worried.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“No, no civilians that I can see. Just enormous, weaponized alien slugs.”

“Get over yourself. I wasn't _that_ worried.” Jason reaches into a pouch slung across his hips.

“I had you big time,” Dick teases.

“Just stay where you are.”

Jason fires his grapple, swinging and falling his way to Dick’s location.

 

* * *

 

Bruce pulls back the cowl of his suit and steps in front of the expansive maker space in the Cave. Monitors showing the destruction of Gotham give off a blue-tinged glow, sweeping across the cave floor and illuminating the damp stalactites overhead. Two monitors, however, show black screens and white text with the words, _No video input._ Bruce gives those monitors a glance and moves on.

Damian sweeps past his father and disappears behind a wall. Bruce hears the boy rummaging through things which aren’t his. He hears him remain close.

Alfred quietly descends the stairs from the manor above, holding a tray for tea and accoutrements.

“Masters Dick and Jason, Sir?”

“On their own.”

“I see. I’ll just set your cup here, Sir.” Alfred finds a clear space on the tabletop to the left of where Bruce stands in thought. There’s a small _clink_ of the saucer hitting the surface, announcing the task complete.

“Lex Luthor’s involved,” Bruce says.

“I dare say the President would be, though I do believe that’s not what you meant by ‘involved’, is it?”

“Hrmn.”

“What kind of sound is that, anyways? ‘Hrrrmmmmn.’ A favorite noise of yours, apparently.”

Bruce turns towards Alfred, a quizzical look on his face.

Alfred clasps his hands behind his back and relaxes his shoulders. “Master Dick is not here to cheer you and Master Jason is not here to distract you. I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me, Sir...and whatever it is Master Damian is searching for.”

Both men look towards the wardrobes lining the far cave wall, continuing past the partition.

Alfred continues, “Yes. Just me, the young master, and possibly some dirty socks, if where the sound is coming from supplies any indication.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce says. It’s all he can say to the man who has been his unyielding support for decades. He’s grateful for it now.

Damian returns to the workspace. He picks up a tea cup with his empty hands and takes a sip, his costume and domino still worn with his trademark hardened glare.

“You didn’t find what you were looking for, Master Damian?”

“I was not looking for anything.” He puts the tea cup down.

“Damian,” Bruce says.

The boy looks to his father and folds his arms across his chest.

“I thought…” he starts, before stopping himself.

“It’s okay, Damian. You can tell us.”

He examines his father, then spares a quick glance to Alfred and continues. “I thought if there was an old suit of Grayson’s I could possibly communicate with him if I was close enough to the force field. It was idiotic and I apologize, father.”

Bruce takes a step towards his son, away from the monitors, and lowers to a knee. Face to face with Damian he says, “There’s no need to apologize. We could use any and all ideas right now.” He purses his mouth at the words he needs to say, unsure of his own capabilities at forming them. “It’s okay to care about people, Damian,” he says, slowly. “I understand your worry. Working the problem will help bring Dick home. And Jason. Despite what you think, Jason does have appropriate training…”

“I am glad Todd is with him.”

Bruce narrows his eyes, unsure of the meaning behind the statement.

Damian clarifies, “Todd is the only one who would rage justifiably if something were to happen to Grayson. I’m counting on his emotional instability to do what’s needed. At any cost.”

“Damian. If _anything_ were to happen to Dick…”

“At any cost,” Damian repeats. They stay facing each other for a moment, trying to read the other’s careful lack of reactions.

The voice of Lex Luthor startles them through the Cave’s PA system.

“This is President Luthor, will the Batman please respond.”

Bruce stands up and moves back to the workspace, pressing a key. “I’m here, Luthor. What is it.”

“I thought I’d keep you apprised of any Blüdhaven developments.”

Bruce reviews his monitors. “And what exactly can you tell me, Lex? That you have military outposts surrounding the quarantine? That you will probably treat every living thing inside the force field as a hostile, whether it’s extra-terrestrial or not?”

“We had a partial, temporary failure of the quarantine field.”

“ _What?_ ” Bruce catches himself, then responds again. “When.”

“About ten minutes ago. I just finished dealing with Congress, making sure everything is working as it should be and, despite what you may think, that the safety of the American people remains our top priority.”

“Where,” Bruce demands.

“My sheet in front of me says ‘Section 15’, but I believe by the Memorial Bridge.”

“How long was the failure.”

“The log shows forty-five seconds. The ground troops confirmed the time table.”

“Hmm.”

“None of the -- I’ll use your words, thank you -- hostile aliens escaped. We were very lucky, I’ll have you know. But I also want to say I’m sorry.”

“Be specific please, Mr. President.”

“I bring you no definitive information concerning your Bat family members. The force field prevents us from getting accurate information, but there have been three main clusters of the aliens visually spotted in the city. We believe one or both of your boys are engaged with a cluster of these creatures by the Port Authority.”

“Is that it?”

A sigh emanates from the sound system. “No. From what the troops stationed around the perimeter are reporting, our options for dealing with this issue have become very limited. I’m letting you know, out of courtesy to you and your wards, that diplomacy is off the table.”

Bruce freezes while his mind supplies what the non-diplomatic options are. Destruction. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Luthor.”

“You worry about what you’re responsible for, and I’ll worry about mine,” the president says, in a way that makes Bruce certain he has more detective work to do. Luthor gives a terse farewell and Batman mutes the Cave’s audio.

“What now?” Damian asks.

Bruce turns back to the monitors, narrowing his eyes at the two screens offline. “We need Red Robin and Oracle,” he says.

 

* * *

 

Jason swings off his grapple and jumps into the middle of a swarm of creatures, making the street he just landed on more like a rolling sea of limbs. New instincts kick in as he makes the shift from flying and falling to stabbing and slashing without holding back. While his body moves in a familiar way to protect himself, he breathes a sigh of relief at the vibrant blue he spots against the darkness.

Jason lets his muscle memory handle the attacks. His eyes instead watch Nightwing move with grace, with trademark flair, and with deft, definitive executions. Dick takes a step back, leading the creatures towards him, then leaps sideways when they attack. He laughs at their miss while he crushes and strangles whichever aliens are within reach. His attacks use the length of his whole body, drawing power from every inch of his frame and moving with the fluidity of someone who doesn’t take gravity as law. Jason observes Dick rolling his shoulders, the muscle rippling beneath the black and blue material fitted to his skin. He’s mesmerized. A sharp pain brings his focus back to his current engagements.

“Ow! God damnit, I hate these things!”

Jason wrenches the oversized slug-like creature off his body, dabbing at the blood trickling from the wound with the heel of his glove.

“Welcome to the party, Hood,” Dick yells out over his shoulder upon hearing his exclamation.

“Why are we the main dish?” Jason yells back. “Why are you here? What’s the plan?”

The creatures continue in never ending waves. Dick doesn’t let them stop him from conversing.

“So many questions! There were tons of people in the area who needed to escape. Get to their homes or buildings that would offer better protection, you know. I mean, these warehouses aren’t exactly up to code.”

Jason takes in the state of the docks from his periphery, though he’s familiar enough with the ‘Haven to know what surrounds him. Doors with rusted locks, broken windows, and blue tarpaulin for patched rooftops remind him of the exact state of his surroundings.

“So. We’re going monster hunting, then?”

Dick continues to pummel at a writhing couple of aliens as he responds. “I’m not really sure what I’m doing. All I know is, if I engage with the creatures, they gather around me and attack as a larger group.”

“Leaving less creatures to attack the civilians?”

“That’s been my observation so far.”

“You think they pull in numbers to defeat a harder opponent?”

“I’ve seen creatures turn away from a man to join a horde and attack me. I’m curious what they’ll make of the two of us together. Plus, every slug I take out is one less that can attack someone else. That’s all I’ve got right now.” Dick turns, lenses sweeping the area until his gaze lands on Jason moving towards him. He smiles.

“ _Here come the man with the look in his eye_ ,” Dick sings out loud, voice unwavering despite the physicality demanded in fighting.

“You can’t see any look behind this helmet, nevermind my eyes.”

“C’mon. Play along.”

“ _Fed on nothing but full of pride?_  Thanks a lot, Goldie.”

“ _Look at them go, look at them kick._ ” Dick responds, like an invitation to a challenge.

Jason grins, making his way to Dick’s side. “ _Makes you wonder how the other half live_ ,” he finishes, unable to deny the thrill he gets from the vigilante lifestyle. He pulls an extra knife from his thigh holster and offers it to Nightwing. The two of them slaughter creatures left and right, working in tandem to cover their blind spots. They pause every now and then to inspect a wound, to catch a breath, to check on each other.

From a darkened avenue across the street, Dick spots another large wave of creatures making their way towards the vigilantes. He takes advantage of the brief hiatus to shake out his arms and flex his fingers.

“This town, I swear,” Jason says, rolling back on his heels to stretch out his calf muscles.

“Hey! This town is doing great things! In the last couple years crime has gone down, poverty rate has gone down. The schools are doing better and more kids are graduating. People are actually _moving_ here!”

“You saying Blüdhaven's actually gonna change its stripes?”

“That's funny coming from you.” Dick punches Jason on the shoulder, smearing a bit of slime on his jacket. Jason looks at the darkened, glistening spot, then at Dick, and frowns.

“Oops, sorry,” Dick says, while attempting to smudge the gloop out with the side of his fist. “Out damned spot!” he mocks and then laughs.

“And now,” Dick continues, “Luthor pulls out the quarantine move, huh? You know, I'm not surprised. He hates this town. Hates how much success this place has seen under rival political candidates. And, he hates me in particular.” Dick stops, tilting his head in thought. “What do you think the odds are this whole invasion thing was done so Luthor could get rid of me and Blüdhaven all in one go?”

 _What do you mean he hates you in particular?_ Jason thinks, but instead says, “Seriously, N? Luthor's been president for five years. Why now?”

“He’s probably got a megalomaniac to-do list and he’s finally reached _Wipe Blüdhaven off the map_.”

Jason laughs at the image of Lex sitting in the oval office, ticking off boxes on a piece of paper which list things like _turn the people into sheep_ and _become a tyrant for all Earth_ and _make a billion dollars in one day_. That’s another guy Jason would like to personally beat to a pulp. The image dissipates when he spots five or six creatures moving along the corner of a nearby building exterior. They pulse forward and backward, like they’re eager and also hesitant to engage. Jason moves slowly towards the hostiles, all knotted and snaking around each other, a sheen of mucus softly catching the force field’s low red light.

A creature launches itself at him and he strikes it down with his serrated blade, crushing it underneath his boot for good measure. “Gross. Where’s Bill Pardy when you need him?” He wipes his boot on an oily patch of asphalt. “Hey. I like your optimism concerning the ‘Haven,” Jason throws out.

“Don't patronize me.”

Jason turns to look at Nightwing.

“I'm not,” he says to his back, as Dick continues his onslaught against the aliens. “I swear. I'm not being facetious. I genuinely like your attitude. You're a realist, but you’re not bleak. You're optimism isn't unfounded. I guess it's … it's part of why I like being around you. Even when the family’s driving me crazy. Your presence can make it bearable.” Jason pivots again, and resumes stalking the mass of creatures around the building’s corner, watches it slink back from him and retreat farther away.

“That and my five-star ass, you pervert.” Dick laughs out his response with a smash of his fist, more burst of slime. “And these creatures are way bigger than the slugs from whatever the name of that movie is you referenced!”

Jason’s already around the corner of the building when the comment comes, and he tries to focus on the aliens before him. He hears Dick’s calls, hears the questioning _Hood?_ from around the crumbling brick building he’s currently shadowed by.

 _Not everything’s about your perfect ass_ , Jason thinks as the creatures abruptly decide they definitely want to attack. He slashes through their flesh, but not before a few of them get in some more open wounds and _shit, there’s more blood than I thought_ runs through his mind at the sight of his armor, his body.

Jason stands amongst the carcasses, his breathing labored, as Dick runs around the corner. Jason can spy the tautness of worry in the man’s muscles, even if the domino lenses hide whatever his eyes might betray.

“Jay!” Nightwing yells his name, abandoning years of training. “Don't wander off!”

Jason knows that same feeling of concern, knows that whatever Jason and Dick are experiencing since the meteorite landed -- maybe before, if he’s honest -- is unnamable and uncharted and mutual. But instead, he smiles at the opportunity: “I had you big time,” he gloats, repeating Nightwing’s own words.

He sees the beginning of a smile break across Dick’s face and his posture relax as he exhales, when the attack comes from the side. The creatures leap from the broken windows of the building, leaving long gashes across Nightwing’s already compromised suit as they attack his chest, back, and neck. Nightwing staggers, like a bird pinned to a gust sideways. Jason rushes in with his fists, his weapons, _his rage_ and takes on the ten or more aliens Dick is struggling against. With each dead alien that drops to the glossy black asphalt, more and more blood is revealed in its stead, until when both men finally defeat the mass of limbs, Dick sinks to his knees, held steady only by Jason’s slime covered hands. His head lolls back slowly and without the usual grace as he looks up at Jason. He lets out a soft _Oh!_ and then his head slumps forward, chin to his chest, no longer aware of their grim situation.

Jason examines his surroundings; takes in the buildings a few blocks away, what safety they might provide, and the creatures that remain in the way.

He gathers an unconscious Dick in his arms and begins to walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Nick for the line “That and my five-star ass, you pervert” who added it to my doc as a joke. Well, joke’s on you cause I love it and it’s staying in.
> 
> Alfred makes a My Fair Lady reference in his attempt to lighten the atmosphere. Jason and Dick quote the song, “Devil Inside” by INXS and reference Nathan Fillion’s character from the movie Slither. Dick quotes Lady Macbeth. Jason channels some Joan Jett with regards to a bad reputation. And the boys make use of the X-Files gag of "I had you big time."
> 
> Also, I headcanon that Dick and Jason reference song verses when they're together because of their closer ages/similar taste in music. Feel free to disregard lol


	3. Hide, Hidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Barbara play gumshoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tag: vague mentions of past Tim/Kon (past because, Kon was not present continuity when I started writing this lol)

Tim treads the pavement briefly before slipping into the shadows of a forlorn alley.

He checks his surroundings and listens to the quietness permeating from all around. For once, Gotham takes a pause to lick at its wounds. The recent acts of violence beyond the normal scope of understanding and acceptance have left Gotham uncharacteristically empty, like a city tucked away for the night. As often as Tim works to rid the city of crime, he’s not sure if he cares for this type of inactivity; this empty hurting.

Along his route, Tim had spotted a handful of city officials, busy attaching labels to the injured and worse. He can only imagine the devastation dealt to Blüdhaven and whatever Dick and Jason are enduring because of it. He wishes he could see exactly what’s going on, but the quarantine field keeps out prying eyes as successfully as it keeps in the hostile aliens...and the people trapped within.

Batman’s voice interrupts his thoughts.

“Update from Luthor,” Batman says over a newly established comm line, one the president hasn’t managed to invade yet. “Another temporary failure of a forcefield section.”

“What? Again?” This made two failures within an hour of each other. “Were they different sections?”

“No. Same section. This time failure lasted for one minute, thirty-two seconds.”

“Hmmm,” Tim muses, “a longer failure than the first. This is Section 15, correct? The one closest to the on-ramp for the Memorial Bridge?”

“A straight shot into Downtown. To the meteorite.”

“You think maybe an extraction?”

“I do. Keep me updated on your findings.”

“Will do, B,” Tim says.

There’s a full two seconds of silence before his domino lenses ping with a communication from a new channel. Tim recognizes the account and switches over, where Oracle immediately announces her presence. “You ready for this? I thought some time away from B’s prying ears would make for a fun reconnaissance.”

Tim lets out a breath and responds. “Why do I get the feeling I’m about to be interrogated?”

“Having a conversation isn’t always an interrogation.”

“B would think it unprofessional.”

“That’s why he’s not invited. Okay. I see you’re at the location.”

Tim looks down the alleyway and, in the camouflage of the building’s painted exterior, spots the backdoors he’s looking for.

“Third door on the left, correct?”

“Yep. Do your thing, Red Robin.”

Tim moves to the side of the door and gathers what intel he can. He consults the building plans O had sent him, notes the door swings outward and the hardware attached is not reinforced, then readies himself. He tests the door gingerly to find it locked, but he’s already reaching for his belt to pull out a keyring. He sorts through the tools attached, all of them differing sizes of tiny, steel picks. He inserts a tool, and then another, manipulating the pins of the lock tumbler as quietly as he can. The lock disengages after a few seconds of Tim’s ministrations.

He turns the handle then pushes open the door, immediately rolling across the threshold to a load bearing wall. He’s in an entryway of sorts, landing with his back against what makes up a hallway. Tim can see down the dark space where more doorways lead to more rooms. He readies himself for his next action while simultaneously searching for the person of interest: a suspected cultist was seen entering this building from the same alleyway Tim has just crept through.

To the left of the wall directly in front of Tim, sits a kitchenette and, leaning to the left a fraction, Tim manages to spot the man immediately. The suspect is slumped on a three-legged stool at a small, wooden table; tabletop bare except for the package of cartoon-themed plastic bandages. The man at the table still hasn’t noticed him, which isn’t surprising given how Tim operates. With years of training and experience, he can’t help to be anything but quiet. Though Tim certainly would’ve heard someone roll through a door just off the same room he was occupying. Well then. Time to make his presence known.

He stands up quickly, but doesn’t rush the man. He doesn’t want to needlessly escalate things. Besides, if the dripping blood at the floor between the table legs is any indication, the man isn’t about to start throwing punches. He does, however, make eye contact with Tim upon his movements. He sits up a bit, aiming for a ready posture, then gives a small, painful shrug and says, “This was the only medical piece I could find.” Tim looks at the band-aids again, their cheery colors a stark contrast to the dingy surroundings and the man who occupies the table: dressed in black, fabric spread taut against his overly muscled frame. Tim, for a split second, realizes his own costume must also seem as exceptionally colorful as those band-aids, but then dismisses the thought to dig into his utility belt while he approaches.

“I’ve got some stuff here if you’ll let me take a look.”

“Be my guest.”

Tim inspects an open wound along the right bicep and then identifies a broken clavicle. Easy bone to break. Easy enough to heal -- on its own. He pulls out a wipe packet and a syringe to clean out the wound, accessed through a tear in the sleeve just beneath the odd symbol stitched like a brand, the one that stands for the yew tree.

“So. You’re part of this Tree Cult.” Tim opens the packet and cleans the surrounding laceration.

“Nope.”

“Do you deny engaging in violent acts in the streets of Gotham?”

“Nope.

Tim looks at the man again, considers the lifestyle needed to hone the physique he has cultivated and the drab cult outfit he wears like a uniform. Tim peels apart the plastic housing the syringe.

“I’m gonna clean this out with some pressure.”

“Whatever you say, Doc.”

Tim irrigates the wound as much as he can, then attempts to dry the area with some gauze he found cramped in his med kit. He presses the flesh together with careful fingers and closes the wound with Steri-strips.

“So. The person who employed you. You ever do private military security work with them before?”

“Look at you, you are a smart one,” the man says, voice patronizingly chipper. “They did say that about you Bats. Unfortunately--”

“Let me guess: ‘nope.’”

The man smiles wide at Tim.

“Sorry, Red Bird.”

“Red Robin.”

“Whatever. Whoever hired me, knew what they were doing.”

“Were all of you hired muscle?”

“Most of us, from what I could tell. We find others in the industry easy to spot once you know the tells. I find you birds and bats interesting...you were all trained by the same person.”

Tim continues dressing the man’s wound. “Oh?”

“You all wear your compassion on your utility belts,” he says. “It’s not just a job to you. You were trained by someone who wants to prevent these things from happening. Whereas for me...let’s just say a violent world is the best form of job security.” He gives another smile.

“But. Back to your question. There were a few fanatics thrown into the group for authenticity. You know how it is; there’s always those few who’ll believe anything if you show them a slip of paper saying so with government letterhead.”

Tim mulls his words over as he finishes taping the wound closed.

“There. All done.”

“Some info for medical services. I’d say that’s a fair trade.”

Tim pulls out a couple zipties.

“You didn’t exactly give me anything concrete. Or anything I wouldn’t have found out quickly from some other mouth.”

“Yeah, I know. You gonna take away my bandages?”

“I’m the good guy in this situation. Remember?”

The man narrows his eyes at Tim’s statement. “If you’re as smart as everyone says you are, then you’ll figure out it wasn’t like I could say no.”

Tim secures the man’s wrists and ankles and cinches the ties.

“I know. Except you could’ve. There are people who have been directly harmed by you. They’re going to want some accountability. I’m thinking you’ll be a lot easier to prosecute than the person behind this.” Red Robin steps away and makes for the same door he entered in. He’s pretty sure all of the Bats know who’s behind this orchestration.

“We’re not that different, you and me,” the man says. “We’re both on the wrong side of the law.”

Tim stops in his tracks and turns around. “Except I was trying to save lives,” Tim says in his Red Robin voice. “You were hindering us, possibly even caused some fatal injuries.” Tim turns back around for the exit and laughs. “Plus, the difference between you and me is I didn’t get caught.” He makes his way out and gives a final call back:

“Try fighting for the people instead of against them and I might bail you out myself.”

 

* * *

 

Tim slips back out into the alley and makes his way to the rooftops.

“Police have been notified of the suspect,” Oracle says in his ear. “That guy was either flirting with you or just happened to be a normal, typically well-adjusted mercenary.”

“Pretty sure the latter.”

“Yeah, me too. But he _could’ve_ been flirting with you.”

“People don’t flirt with me, O.”

“Sure they do. You just don’t notice them.”

“No, they don’t. Not since Kon.”

There’s a brief pause and then Barbara speaks. “Sorry, Double R.”

“It’s fine.”

Babs makes a noise of consideration over the channel. “Harper’s brother seems to have the hots for you.”

“Who? Roy? Oh. You mean Cullen. Yeah, well--”

“--Not your type.”

“Yeah. Not my type. And sometimes I see people -- you know, the ones who forget other people exist when they’re with that one person -- and I remember, I remember what it was like.”

“You mean you see Hood and N. They’re so gross and clueless.”

Tim laughs. “I don’t think they even know they’re flirting with each other!” Tim goes silent again. “I hope they’re okay. I wonder what it’s like for them, trapped under the forcefield. Neither of them like to feel contained.”

“I hope they’re making beautiful mistakes together,” Babs interrupts. “Because, god I cannot stand to see them obliviously pining anymore.”

“I’ll even put up with their intense gazes for one another if it means they’re alive and well.”

“Wow. You must really care, Red.”

“Shut up. Anything else you need on the street?”

“Actually, let me send you something. As much as I love talking with you, I was working. Hold on a second.”

Tim scans the city while he waits, still unsettled from the lack of activity. Perched up on a rooftop, Tim watches as his ziptied mercenary friend is escorted by a man and woman in uniform to a police vehicle, lights flashing a chaotic pattern of red and blue.

Oracle speaks again.

“I may have some interesting CCTV video.”

“ _May?_ ”

“I’ve found some footage, but there’s still a lot of it and I don’t quite know what I’m looking for. I’m gonna run it through my program and hope for the best. It’ll start organizing faces it can pick up, and maybe I’ll get a hit on an identifiable person. Maybe even a known villain I’ve already set up in the software!”

“You’re being vague. How do you know you might have something of interest?”

“This is why you’re my favorite, Tim. You ask me questions, and not out of politeness.”

“I’m dying here from waiting, O.”

“Your vitals say otherwise. Anyways. I found an exterior security cam which had some interesting recordings in its last loop.”

“And?”

“The footage is from New York. They were first to report cultist attacks and I thought focusing there might get me something. It did, but not because of some attack order. It looks like I’ve got people trickling into a building, and then a couple hours later, the same people trickling back out in their assassin fashion wear. So original in design,” Oracle laughs over the comms.

“Sounds like you’ve got some more faces to round up.”

“I’ve got another person on camera who enters and exits in the same clothes. Nice clothes. Tailored. Very suspicious.”

Tim scoffs. “So, you’re hoping for maybe an identifiable face, on _some_ New York CCTV footage. Good luck.”

“I find your lack of faith disturbing."

Tim laughs, then lets the silence flow over the comms. Tim takes one more look around the Gotham skyline before breaking into a run and leaping for another building. He loses himself in the deep stride of his run and the feeling of falling to his next location.

He's just come out of a roll, springing back to his feet on a rooftop covered in crushed rock when Barbara's voice comes back to him.

“Stephen Edwards.”

“Is that the person in nice clothes? How’d you get an ID so fast?”

“I didn’t. I recognize him. He was an assistant some time ago. To Mercy Graves.”

“Great. An assistant of an assistant to President Luthor. I knew this picture was bleak.”

“I’ll send this to B. Maybe together we can pull something more definitive. And then send it all off to a certain journalist. That’s our best hope for taking down the culprit.”

“Maybe B has an answer in the Cave,” Tim says, sliding down the side of the building. He’s made a small circuit atop the Gotham skyline, but feels an itch to settle back down behind a monitor or some equipment in the Batcave or Oracle’s Clocktower. “He’s always got something to help us in the Cave.”

Barbara snickers at his statement. “Yeah, it’s organized right by the Chaos Shard and the Kryptonite.”

Tim laughs. “He keeps his Kryptonian death crystal next to the life reviving crystal?”

“I like to think he color coordinates his artifacts, actually. Besides, it's  _amplification_ not specifically life reviving. Hey.” Babs’ tone shifts over the comms suddenly. “You’re not planning anything dumb, right? I see you making your way for your bike. You’re not gonna steal the HellBat suit and try to break down the forcefield or anything? Or make use of a Lazarus Pit while we’re occupied?”

Tim stops before reaching his bike and considers. “If I had anything planned, you wouldn’t know about it until I had a large enough head start.” He thinks some more, the heart of this Eastern Seaboard problem gnawing away at him. “I think that’s exactly what Lex has done. We can see his fingerprints all over this situation, but we don’t know why. We’re all racing to the answer before it’s snatched away from us. And since the attacks have stopped or are contained in a single city, wider interest seems to be waning.”

“You, the detective, want to see how all the pieces fit. I just want to know what Lex’s plans mean for the rest of us -- and probably how to stop those plans, if it's not too much to ask.”

“It’s so hard to tell with Lex. If the outcome will prove a positive or negative.”

“Everything he does is self-serving,” Barbara warns.

“But it doesn’t mean that sometimes others don’t benefit from his evil plots.”

“Any good he does is a byproduct of evil he can afford to loose on the world. Don’t thank him for it, Double R.”

“Tell that to Dick, who’s breathing because of him. Or to Conner...if he was here. Alive.”

Tim lets himself lapse into a buzzing stillness, before Barbara cuts through again clearly, voice full of strength and understanding.

“You want to come over and talk? Or not talk? We can find some more evidence. Or you could write a detailed report completely in R so none of the formatting changes on you? I’ve got ground coffee beans I could put to good use.”

Tim smiles and holds on to her words like a lifeline.

“I’ll be there in five,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to [Volavi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Volavi) for offering to read this over the same time I started to go cross-eyed from staring at it for too long! This chapter is certainly much better for it! All remaining mistakes are mine, and honestly, on brand at this point xD


	4. Gimme Shelter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [kuro49](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49) who many months ago encouraged me to dig deeper with this story and has given amazing support in all things. Thank you, friend.
> 
> Tags have been updated to reflect new chapter. See End Notes for specifics.

Dick slowly returns to consciousness the moment Jason stops in front of a building. His surroundings are garbled at first, a corrupted file saved too many times to the same location, and he tries to identify what he’s got to work with. He registers a brief pause then peeks an eye open as Jason carefully grasps a door handle to a set of glass double doors. He gives a gentle pull, trying not to jostle Dick in his arms, and the door opens out; left unlocked in the fervor.

Dick’s senses return with each beat of his own heart and he feels himself gripped tightly, clutched against Jason’s torso, his head tucked beneath the man’s jaw. There’s no helmet from what he can tell and he gives himself a moment to briefly wonder what happened to it. He feels the labored breathing, senses the determination in Jason’s steps. Whatever happened wasn’t easy. Knowing he was unconscious and unable to help prickles at him, and Dick knows in this moment that if not for his chest injuries he’d be slung over Jay’s shoulder in a better weight distribution, if not standing by his side at the ready. Instead, Jason is expending more energy in a bridal carry and Dick knows he is nothing but dead weight. He figures the best way to address the situation is to call him out on it. He fully opens his eyes to signal he’s awake.

As Jason strides into the building’s entryway, Dick croons out, “The Damned Prince of Gotham carrying me over the threshold? What a fairy tale.”

His voice is weaker than he’d hoped, but Jason doesn’t hesitate to respond.

“Do you want me to drop you?”

Dick, finally feeling the various ticks and movements of a warm body against him, realizes these physical feelings are lessening with every minute, replaced by a disconcerting numbness. He presses the side of his face further into the crook of Jason’s neck, taking all he can get.

“No,” he answers.

Jason keeps moving. He turns a corner and finds a large open staircase spiraling upward along the core of the multi-story office building. Dick knows he’s in bad shape, but he offers anyways.

“I can probably walk, Jay.”

Jason huffs out a dismissive laugh. “Sure you can.” He takes step after step, keeping his breathing and stamina set to a rhythm that leads to onward and upward before the eventual crash. “Just let me do this, Dickie. I got you.”

Dick is feeling less of his body, but his mind becomes more and more alert with each jarring step Jason takes. He feels awake and useless.

“ _Gimme, gimme shelter or I’m gonna fade away_ ,” he breathes out, voice still ragged and his chest protesting with each contraction of his diaphragm.

Jason spares a laugh and some words. “You don’t ever quit, do you?” He gives a subtle shake of his head. “Well, I guess you could say a certain kind of fire swept through your very street today.”

“That’s not how the song goes.”

Jason sighs. “I don’t want to sing about a storm threatening your life away, Dickie. Not today.”

Dick is manhandled in silence, then asks, “Where are we going?”

He knows where they’re going. Center, center, center. To the middle of the building as much as possible; barricaded from the aliens, but exits still within viable reach. And there’s another factor to consider, but Dick chases the unknown variable without catching it. He thinks and he thinks, but he shivers instead.

“Up and in,” Jason responds. “You know that.” He leans back a bit to glance down at Dick, all without slowing down. “How’s your head?”

“Head’s fine. I’m just making small talk.”

“I was starting to worry about your mental faculties.”

“Those are not the faculties to be worried about at this moment.”

Jason glances down again, this time with searching concern on his face.

“It’s fine. Just a tingling feeling in some of my appendages.”

Jason narrows his eyes then moves his gaze back to the steps in front of him, defiantly professional.

“Is it spreading?”

Dick closes his eyes and says, “Yeah.”

“You’re going to be okay. I packed some medical supplies. I can treat most of this myself.”

What Jason cannot treat is the most necessary.

He continues, “We’ll get off on this landing. This looks like a good floor.”

Five more steps and Jason does, following the open space until he finds closed doors. The floor is lined with offices along the perimeter, and when inspected, include large, naked windows for every desk jockey.

“Great,” Jason says after opening a fourth door. “Each one is a room with a view.”

Dick throws out his two cents. “Love’s austere and lonely offices much?”

“Yeah, but it’s your dead weight that’s making these cracked hands ache.”

Dick presses his mouth into a hard line and doesn’t respond.

Jason continues to stand there with Dick in his arms, then turns them both sideways so he can peer into the dark room without hitting him against the doorframe. To the left of the door sits a large two cushion sofa in addition to a garish cherry executive desk situated before the floor-to-ceiling windows. Dick can feel the slight hesitation before Jason decides this is the best they can do in their moment of need.

“This one’s got a couch. We’re holing up here.”

Jason shuffles in then lowers Dick to the sofa with care. He drops to his knees with a grunt, shifting his hand to cradle Dick’s head and neck to settle his shoulders against the arm rest.

Dick turns his head and takes in the quiet, unlit office. He sees the desk and a couple of chairs, though he can’t make out the details despite his domino still on his face. A wall on one side appears to be lined with bookshelves and Dick guesses fairly high end cabinetry. Business must be good in a way which makes Dick think whatever they’re doing is probably bad.

He listens to Jason close the door to the office, lock it, and walk back around to behind Dick. Then he feels his world shift when the sofa is forced in front of the door despite the legs’ protestations against the corporate carpet tiles. The world stills and from over the top of his head, he hears Jason speak.

“I’m sorry about the dead weight comment.”

Dick blinks at Jason's sudden apology, but he answers quickly. “It’s fine. I started it.”

“I know how you are if you think you’re a burden. You’re not.”

“But I am. And now you’re stuck here.”

“I knew the consequences coming over.”

“Okay, but you didn’t know you’d be trapped in the ‘Haven against murderous aliens.”

Dick sees well enough to catch Jason move around to the side of the couch and shrug in the dark.

“Doesn’t matter. You were here. So I came.”

“Yeah, but-”

“I told you. It doesn’t matter how high the stakes are. I’m here either way.” He leans over Dick, inspecting the suit, the gashes. “Besides, I can’t leave now that you’re my patient. I’d be charged with abandonment, and the Good Samaritan Law is the only one I try to follow.”

Dick watches Jason’s eyes roam over his body, then softly slide curious fingers over his chest. Jason moves closer to a large slash in Dick’s Nightwing suit, peeling back the fibers slowly to investigate.

“Well, the good news is most of your bleeding looks controlled and your suit is basically your bandage. I’ll get some more on you where the suit doesn’t cover, but if you start bleeding again, I might have to find a pressure point. Your brachial, obviously.” He pulls out an unopened roll of gauze and tears into it, ripping the material into strips and patches. “I think I’ve got some Tegaderm in here somewhere.”

“And the bad news, Jay?” Dick asks.

Jason squats down before the sofa, making himself level with his patient. His hands explore Dick’s chest and press gauze to any open wounds found. They work down an arm, pausing at more exposed flesh. They work to assess. To treat. To move on. He only stops moving once he finds Dick’s hand. Jason lets slip of any facade of professionalism and gives Dick’s hand a tentative feel, then clasps it in both of his.

“Your pulse is too fast, Dickie, and you’re cold to the touch,” Jason says.

“At least I don’t have a fever.”

“You’re shunting blood. You’ve gone hypothermic.”

“I know.”

Jason leans back on his heels, staring at Dick, but not seeing. Then he stands up, peels off his gloves to let them drop on the floor, and shrugs out of his jacket. He drapes it over Dick’s chest and Dick watches him come to a decision.

“Alright. I’m gonna sit behind you, okay? Let me know if it causes more pain.”

“Okay.”

Jason looms over and wraps his arms around Dick’s shoulders to carefully pull Dick up before sliding in behind him on the couch. He uses the momentum to shift Dick onto his side and situates Dick’s hips and legs to rest between Jason’s thighs, his head on Jason’s chest. He folds the arm Dick is laying on up and curls it under his head.

“In case you need to puke,” Jason explains. “Just push your hand up on the back of your head and go.”

“You’ve thought of everything.”

“Time to put all those years of training to work.” He repositions the jacket over Dick’s torso like a blanket.

“You left your gloves on the floor.”

“They’re not going anywhere.” Jason’s hands find holds on Dick’s hips and they shift him slightly away from where Dick can feel he’s crushing soft flesh. Jason exhales a sigh of relief. “Let me know if you’re uncomfortable and I’ll switch your position.”

“Is this the part where you strip me naked for the sake of shared body heat?”

“Maybe if you weren’t covered in blood and open wounds. Your suit’s your bandage now.”

“Tease.”

Jason shakes his head, a low grumble in his chest resonating against the side of Dick’s face. “Are you kidding me right now?” But his words are soft and Dick feels Jason’s hands try to rub some warmth into him. The weight and the pressure feel safe, until Jason pauses, raises a hand to inspect, then goes digging in a pocket. The hand returns to press down with force against Dick’s skin for a minute, then continues the mission of creating heat. But Dick can feel the wetness and he knows he’s bleeding again.

“Speaking of putting some training to work,” Dick says, ignoring the diagnosis, “those cultists had some amazing combat skills. Usually sheep like them are a bit too focused on their cause to even think about going hand to hand with us.”

“You want to figure out a problem that’s inaccessible to us?”

“Sure. Why not? We’ve got nothing better to do.”

Jason continues to create heat through friction against the Nightwing costume that’s barely holding itself together against Dick’s frame. And it’s apt considering everything surrounding Dick. The Nightwing costume, Blüdhaven, Jason here with him; Dick thinks there’s not enough barriers in the world to hold back what’s going on. What may happen.

“Well, I’m not sure how to secretly coordinate an alien attack while running a country, but that’s what I think happened.”

Dick brings his thoughts back to the here and now. “Yeah, Jay. I think so, too. I’m almost positive the cultists we fought were hired for their skills and not their beliefs.”

Jason gives an _mmhmm_. “That makes most sense.”

“I wonder how the city is doing.”

“Nope. We’re not going there. The city is just gonna have to do without you for a bit.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I know you don’t. Deal with it.”

Dick huffs against Jason. Jason grips him tighter in response.

They lay on the couch in silence for a bit, content to just be, with Jason spread out on his back; his shoulders and head propped up by the padded armrest. Dick’s still on his side, head and shoulders elevated on Jason’s chest. Jason’s body heat has finally permeated through the layers of clothing, of armor, and Dick begins to feel warm and comforted.

“Hey, Dick,” Jason says, “I want to ask you something about what you said earlier in the streets. What did you mean by Luthor hating you in particular?”

Here, in the quiet with just Jason to listen, Dick can do it. He can say what he wants. He’s been testing his words against Jason’s reactions for awhile now.

“You ever think back about dying?” Dick asks, extending an invitation. He shifts a bit against Jason, stretching a leg out in a sprawl across his lap.

Jason keeps his eyes on the door as his hand continues to rub heat into Dick’s back.

“Yeah,” he says. “Every time I’m at the Manor for Sunday dinner. My entire inner monologue is just, _Kill me now_.”

Dick gives an appreciative laugh, then continues. “You know, Luthor has watched us lose and regain so many family members. He’s seen you come back from the dead, Jay. He’s seen Damian and Bruce rise up miraculously, just as they were. He’s seen this hell city limp on despite the horrors the ‘Haven’s lived through. He knows I protect a city that doesn’t deserve to live.

“And...he was there when I died. He killed me himself. Then he had to bring me back. Out of obligation. Yet, nothing has brought Superboy back to us. Lex lost something that was never his, yet he’d always considered Kon as belonging to him. His weapon. His son. I think Lex looks at me, looks at this city, and thinks how unfair everything is. I think he wishes I had remained dead. Or was dead instead of Kon.”

Dick takes a breath, then another, slowly and with purpose. “I think about it sometimes. When I died. I know it was brief, but I remember my heart stopping. I remember knowing my heart had stopped and that it was only a matter of time before my brain caught up and realized I was dead. And then it did. I knew.”

Jason’s hand stills and he turns his attention from the door to the man bleeding words and lifeforce alike. Jason absorbs it all.

“I thought you had been unconscious at the time?” Jason asks.

“I did appear that way.”

He presses gently onto Dick’s back with the palm of his hand. “You feel this, Dickie?”

“Yeah.”

“Concentrate on the pressure. The warmth. It’s real. I know things look bad, but, if it means anything, I’m here with you. You can feel me. I’m right here.” Jason smoothes his hand along the side of Dick’s back and then wraps his arms around him in a hug, pressing him to himself in a gentle squeeze.

Dick smiles against his chest, lets Jason enfold him. “You’re good in an emergency, Jay. You’re officially invited to my future mid-life crisis. You have to come.”

“Depends on how often you plan on taking my side of any future arguments.”

“Hmm…”

“Try to rest, Dick. We’ll make future plans later, okay?”

“Okay. But we’re gonna have a ton of work to do to take down Luthor. If we even can. He’s got people everywhere. And we don’t know which ones are good and which ones are bad.”

“You know,” Jason says, “there’s a saying housewrights used to have about wood roof shingles.”

“Housewrights?”

“Yes, housewrights. Home builders from centuries ago.”

“Sure, sure. Just surprised to find myself transported three, four hundred years into the past. What’d they say? About roof shingles?”

“The good ones keep you dry, the bad ones keep you warm.”

“And?”

“And when we get out of this mess, I’m gonna light a fire. The good ones we’ll rope into helping and the bad ones will burn.”

A faint laugh escapes from Dick. “Sounds fun. Can I join you?”

“For sure. We’ll do it together. So rest up, okay?” Jason leans his head forward to press his nose into Dick’s hair. There’s momentary soft pressure, a gift bestowed from Jason to Dick, and then Jay’s head falls back to the arm rest.

Dick closes his eyes and tries to burrow closer to Jason. His mind starts to drift, lulled by the steady heartbeat beneath his ear, and the soft humming Jason emits, along with words sung under his breath; words Jason had refused earlier, but full of hope even still:

_I tell you love, sister, it’s just a kiss away._

_It’s just a kiss away._

 

* * *

 

Damian strides back to the training mat in the Cave, the fifth time in the last hour. On display hang an array of steel weapons: damascus, crucible, and folded. Damian plucks a dagger from its hold and examines the blade and handle. He’s already polished the whole arsenal of weapons, but Damian lets out a noise of contempt as he finds a missed spot in need of attention. He sets off at once to rectify the situation. So far since returning to the Cave, he has arranged weapons, trained, and made his rounds above grounds -- both in the Manor and out.

Alfred watches the boy move with exaggerated purpose from the corner of his eye. He supposes the slight swagger is to convince himself he engages in a worthy task, instead of worrying over how the only thing most of them have been able to contribute to the rescue and extraction of Masters Dick and Jason has been nothing.

Alfred returns his gaze towards a monitor he’s stationed in front of. He’s seen to the domestic tasks already with the sandwiches prepared and sitting on a tray neglected. An unanswered message continues to wink at him from the top corner of his screen.

“Sir, this message from Oracle waits for your attention.”

Bruce’s eyes don’t leave his monitors.

Alfred continues on, opening the dialogue box and examining the contents. “I’ve taken the liberty of reading it. She reports she may have some documents of interest.”

Bruce still ignores Alfred, lost in endless searching.

“I believe she said they are documents which seem related to the invasion and were drafted within the Oval Office, Sir.”

Bruce pushes back from the desk and gives his full attention to Alfred.

“Did she say anything else?”

“No, Sir, except she’ll relay the information if she gets it.”

“If?”

“Precisely, Sir.”

“Documents... No, I might need her for something else. But it’s impossible. This isn’t something we can do with remote access.”

“You wish to prevent the military offensive against Blüdhaven.”

“Luthor will want the city completely destroyed to hide evidence.”

“You think the aliens could be held as evidence against President Luthor?”

“I think a destructive alien force arriving while the Justice League’s best to combat this situation fights off-world is not a coincidence. We have a quarantined city currently housing a violent threat to our nation and the world. Luthor’s all but said there will be a military strike.” Bruce ponders the situation some more, spending more effort on calming breaths as his mind follows the many branches of scenario outcomes. It’s more effort than Alfred has seen in some time.

“He’ll take honorary responsibility,” Bruce starts again after a minute’s silence, “but official blame will land on a highly decorated man who’s been coasting in his career the last decade.”

“Perhaps General Frank Rock, Sir.”

“That sounds probable.”

“Do you think there will be another shield failure, Sir? Perhaps you can get a message inside.”

“No, I think they got what they came for.”

“Master Bruce?”

“That’s what I don’t understand. The combatants are here, in Blüdhaven. All that’s needed is to destroy the city. Why go in and retrieve something?”

“Luthor seems the souvenir type.”

Bruce shakes his head. “The next time the shields go off, Alfred, it won’t be partial failure. Not that it was failure to begin with. It’ll be completely turned off for an airstrike.”

“But the boys...”

“I know.”

Alfred reaches for Bruce and wraps his arms around the man he’s raised.

“I’ll hail them as soon as the quarantine deactivates,” Bruce says in Alfred’s embrace. “Hopefully I can reach them before.”

Alfred steps back to look at Bruce. “Unless they’re waiting at the edge of the field invisible to our observations, it won’t be enough time for them to escape.”

“It will be enough time to say what needs to be said.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's content warnings include the following: Dick talks to Jason about what it felt like to die, including very brief descriptions of heart failure and death awareness.
> 
> The boys quote lyrics from the song “Gimme Shelter” by The Rolling Stones. And the lines "love's austere and lonely offices" and about "cracked hands ache" are from Robert Hayden’s poem, “Those Wintry Sundays.” Title of chapter is also from the Rolling Stone's song.
> 
> Also, many thanks to Vanna for sneak peek encouragement. Thank you for your enthusiasm. You helped me to go ahead and post!
> 
> *The Housewright's saying, explained: the good shingles go on the roof and will keep the rain out, therefore keeping the occupant dry. The bad shingles can be burned for a nice, warming fire. Waste not, want not, eh?


	5. The Boundary, Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TONIGHT  
> Jason maybe survives a confession,  
> Dick continues a joke after almost dying,  
> and I unsuccessfully attempt to end this.  
> *cue Top Gear music*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for this chapter’s canon-typical violence/medical scenario.

Jason rests comfortably, the weight of Dick Grayson on top of him like a warm blanket, when he hears it.

They’ve been lulled into an easy companionship; content to be and reassured by each other’s soft, rhythmic breathing. There’s no yelling. No competition. No egos to bruise and defend. Jason takes a moment to smooth a hand over Dick’s body again. He’s been communicating through touch the last hour, letting Dick know he’s still here, still awake, still taking care of him. Jason’s hand on Dick’s skin is more than just proximity awareness, though. It’s Jason saying _thank you_ \-- thank you to Dick for trusting him, accepting him. For not rejecting him when he offered comfort instead of violence. He’s grateful whatever boundary there was between them previously is gone for the time being.

But as the minutes -- hours -- pass by, Jason knows the shattering of their solitude is upon them. They had spent their time together in safety to speak about things they had both never given voices to: their fears, their regrets, their hopes. Jason had felt the words, and the honesty behind them, wrap around the two men together like a safety net; a cocoon as their shelter.

Now, the silence of their safety net is broken like a brick through a window.

Batman’s voice, blunt as ever, interrupts: “Nightwing. Red Hood. To cover. Now.”

The red light from the forcefield has vanished and in the distance, a garbled whirl of a sound draws closer at a rapid pace.

Jason clutches Dick’s torso and back of his head to him, then rolls off the sofa to land on his other shoulder while Dick attempts to answer the comm through his domino, protected in Jason's embrace.

“B? We’re here,” Dick responds, sounding more alert than he is.

“There’s no time. Do whatever you have to.”

“We know,” Jason says. There really is no time. The forcefield is gone and not as a sign of welcome. The sound is so much closer, too; a ticking clock stemming from the high-pitched whine of turbofan jet engines.

“Location.” Batman demands. “Your position is offline.” His words are short, tense.

“Uhhh...”

“The new office building bordering the Port Authority and Financial District,” Jason supplies.

Bruce’s voice wavers through Dick’s domino despite the hushed nature. “Damnit,” he says. “You’re too close to the meteorite.”

Jason leaves Dick’s side, standing up and taking a couple quick strides towards the large desk in the room. “Don’t count us out yet, B. We’ve got some tools to work with.” Limited, nearly non-existent tools and a heavy dependence on luck. Not exactly a Bat approved method.

“You’re my children,” Batman says. “If you don’t survive this airstrike, I’ll be very disappointed in you.”

Dick gives a laugh in the few seconds of panic they’re allowed. “Thanks, B.”

“He could be serious, you know,” Jason offers.

“Oh, he’s very serious. But it’s his weird way of showing us affection.”

“He’ll still be disappointed either way.”

Another voice cuts through the comms. “Good luck, young masters. You must _take care_.”

Dick’s voice catches in his throat, but then manages to reply. “Of course, Penny One.”

Jason shoves one side of the desk to turn it ninety degrees with renewed vigor. He pulls the same side towards him for a complete rotation, revealing the empty part for a person to sit comfortably.

Jason comes back to Dick and slots his forearms through Dick’s arms, hooking underneath the armpits and careful of the man’s chest and shoulders. He drags Dick towards the desk.

“Hey Jason,” Dick says, letting his body go slack and feeling the strange sensation of what’s left of his armored suit sliding over the corporate carpet tiles. “I’m glad to be with you, here at the end of all things.”

“God damnit, Dickie,” Jason hisses. He pulls Dick’s head under the desk, then moves to push the rest of him inside. Instead, Dick pulls his knees up himself, one last act of defiant capability. Jason quickly ducks under to join him and instantly regrets it. It’s beyond cramped with their large bodies, Jason’s in particular, but it's all they have.

Jason continues, addressing Dick's choice of reference. “Not now with the fucking Frodo quotes," he says. "I’m trying to--”

The whole building flexes like an inhalation, followed by a _roar_ and a _whoosh_.

“Sure hope whoever sits in this office is friends with Scott Pruitt,” he quips, a knee jerk reaction to their situation before shifting to think about how he again finds himself pressed against the Golden Boy, but this time in a less comfortable manner. He mourns the loss of the two of them sprawled out on the sofa, wrapped up in each other like two people who…

Jason’s heart is hammering in his chest, the blood pulsing in his ears muting the world beyond the desk. All he can think of is Dick: of his safety and his slow, warm breaths Jason feels on his neck in their tight space, and of how his body melts into Jason's when the weight of the world is on someone else's shoulders.  Jason tries to clear his head and focus on survival.

 _...Like two people who love each other,_ his treacherous brain supplies to his unfinished thought, unable to let it go.

Jason had started to feel safe, baring himself to Dick in the privacy of the office they found themselves in. Now, with his helmet shattered on the streets outside, Dick in need of medical attention, and Jason suddenly aware he and Dick have built something tangible between each other; Jason feels grotesquely exposed. And in this moment, time appears to stretch on forever when Jason knows the clock has run out.

There’s a voice with them. He knows that voice. It’s close, but it sounds weird to Jason’s ears -- underwater like. He registers a statement before the voice cuts out: _You’re my boys. Survive._

 _Bruce_ , he realizes.

Jason’s attention finds Dick again. In their closeness, he feels the man nestled against him in a pantomime of affection take one more tired, shallow breath just before the windows shatter and fire consumes them.

 

* * *

 

(At the border of safety and danger, Batman and Robin stand at the ready, watching the bombs drop. It’s a shower of metal confetti as the explosives fall from the Raptors with impersonal ease. The aircrafts are away before the explosions finish, back to safety. The mess is for someone else to manage.

But amongst the streets of Blüdhaven, the explosions star against a silent backdrop; a limited audience unable to turn away. And while the words are muffled through Robin’s respirator, Batman hears them all the same: fixated on what’s amongst the destruction. Or who.

“No. Richard,” the boy says. “Not again.”)

 

* * *

 

Jason sits up.

The damned, useless windows are gone, leaving enormous gaping holes in the men’s refuge. A mass of particulates spiral upwards, dark black clouds of organics and inorganics mixed together in a chaotic display of ash. The desk is standing, covered in a mess of charred materials. Jason figures he and Dick must have spilled out from the desk during the explosion, like a tipped over glass. He looks above and sees the ceiling half intact, but holding. There are three standing walls -- drywall missing along the edges -- and a floor. Jason realizes he is safe for the moment, which leads to a microsecond of panic at what could’ve been until he tells himself he’s not in immediate danger and moves on. Dick lies on the ground next to him, slowly blinking his eyes as the room comes into focus, and Jason lends him his attention. Dick makes no move to sit up and Jason thinks that best, all things considered. Dick’s face wears a gray complexion, smeared with the ash of the explosions. His eyes wander along Jason’s form, noticing the same gray shade coating him as well.

Jason breaks the daze.

He says, “We’re covered in pollution.”

Dick blinks at the statement, knows he’s supposed to respond in a certain way, and finds the words on his tongue, his reflexes coming back. “At least it’s visible pollution,” he manages.

Jason smiles, glad for the game, glad Dick’s still playing: point, counterpoint.

“Oh yes,” Jason agrees, his face pulled together in mock seriousness. “Small mercies, that. Suffocating to death on visible pollution is way better than polluting the bloodstream.”

“It’s the--” Dick’s face wears a confused look as he gives a sharp gasp, “--it’s the little things--” he makes another attempt at a breath, but he draws no air.

“Dick? Dick?! Shit!”

Jason examines him on the ground, watching his ashen face turn red and his throat swell up. He tilts Dick’s chin up and swabs a finger down his throat, checking for any obstructions. There’s nothing. Panic returns full force as Jason racks his brain for a cause and how to treat. Dick’s face loses its red color, slowly replaced by a blue tinge.

A thought pops into Jason’s head: _Meteors often contain large amounts of nickel. Nickel is inflammatory._

“God damn, meteorite!” Jason yells and digs a scraped up hand of his into the pouch with his medical supplies. His fingers grasp a plastic cylinder and he gets to work. He removes the orange safety cap and presses the autoinjector filled with epinephrine to Dick’s thigh. He injects, waits one second, then moves back to Dick’s face, tilting his head back again and covering his mouth with his. Jason forces his air into Dick’s lungs and starts to brutally pump just below the sternum with his palms clasped together.

“C’mon, Dickie, c’mon.” He says each word with each pump of his fists like a repetitive prayer, a mantra.

“You made it this far, you can’t leave.” Jason again forces more air through Dick’s mouth. He sees from his periphery Dick’s chest rise and fall with each respiration and he begins another count of chest depressions.

His mantra continues, “C’mon, Dickie, we’re almost out, Dickie c’mon. You’re so close, you’re so close, don’t leave me I need you I love you I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner but I love you,” he says all at once, then sucking in a deep breath to save most of the air in his lungs for Dick.

Jason pumps and breathes life into Dick over and over and finally, _finally_ , Dick startles back into consciousness with a gasp. His breathing is erratic at first, then begins to slow. And then a whisper:

“I had you big time,” Dick says, his eyes closed and chest still heaving. Across his cheeks and nose Dick’s face blooms a healthy pink.

Jason cradles him closer and sobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: this chapter includes a scenario of military bombings on a metropolitan environment as well as performative CPR. This includes a scene of anaphylactic shock when Dick's body is bombarded with nickel. Nickel is an inflammatory metal. With so much of it suspended in the air due to the bombing of the meteorite and Dick's open wounds, he has a severe reaction.
> 
> Also, I wrote the Scott Pruitt line way back when he was still relevant (former US EPA director, who reportedly spent a high amount on a desk that was more panic room than secretarial). I can’t believe I started writing snippets of this back in September 2018. 
> 
> Unbeta'd. Please excuse any mistakes. One...maybe two chapters to go.


	6. Analysis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bats invade Blüdhaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings at the end of chapter.

On the dark streets of Blüdhaven, Batman delivers his fist against the alien’s appendage.

There’s a burst of thick, viscous liquid and a splat onto the pavement, left behind as the caped crusader continues his path deeper into the city center. With each stride he takes, more of the city appears alive; the airstrike failing to wipe out the city as initially feared. Flanked by Robin and Red Robin, the trio note the movement of survivors, stopping occasionally to assess and to mark the area for easy discovery. The federal cavalry will be roaring in soon, looking to sharpen up their image after the fiasco of the Blüdhaven disaster. The Bats mean to help, but they also mean to slink out unfettered.

The streets are cluttered with vehicles; some abandoned, some not. The family zigzags through the obstacles, searching for the living only. Over the comms, Oracle says, “You’re almost there. Turn right.”

Bruce knows they’re almost there. He needs no reminders. But he lets Barbara continue to make announcements -- he’s positive she doesn’t know she’s tying up the communication lines. As they run through the city two more creatures attack, but their movements are slow and dull. They’re either injured or affected by the pollution. Batman shreds one of the creatures attempting to attack his boot with the blades on his gauntlets. Robin joins up with Red Robin as the older one makes a quick swoop on an alien, restraining it against the asphalt.

“Hold it still,” Tim says, noticing Robin’s presence. He rummages through his utility belt compartments.

“Are you insane, Red Robin?” Damian asks, exerting himself in his failing attempts to subdue the creature.

“Almost ready.” Tim uncaps a syringe filled with a clear substance, not quite fluid or solid, but something in-between. His fingers work with a deft swiftness, allowing him to indulge the detective side of himself for two minutes. That’s his time budget: two minutes. It’s all he’s giving himself to take away from searching for his missing brothers. Tim grips the wriggling alien and stabs the needle into its flesh. He fills the creature with the substance, trapping everything that makes the alien tick before it can decay in death, and the alien stops writhing. Tim reaches for a Tedlar bag from his belt and places the creature inside.

“Get the tape.”

“I don’t take orders from you. And I’m not here to fetch things on your person.” But as he speaks, Robin finds a small roll of duct tape in a compartment at Red Robin’s hip. He wrinkles his nose, risking a view of unprofessionalism in the field to get his message of disdain across. His eyes quickly flit back to the bag with the dead creature -- Red Robin’s sample now -- and frees an approximate amount of tape to seal the bag shut. He rips the tape off the roll and lays it directly on the folded seam Red Robin holds in place. Red takes over, folding the tape over the back of the bag to secure it shut.

He stands up and Robin gives a smirk.

“And where exactly do you plan on storing your specimen?”

Red Robin flicks his cape back to reveal a hard shell pack attached to his costume between the shoulder blades.

“Press the button on the right side and stash this, okay?” Red Robin holds out the bag in one hand and his cape to the side with the other.

“This is beneath me.” Robin opens the pack and carefully places the bag inside.

“Oh, c’mon. I’m gonna get a lot of information from this.” There’s a satisfying _click!_ as the pack shuts.

“Finished,” Robin announces. It’s only been 90 seconds from start to finish.

Tim manages the case from the display on his left gauntlet again, selecting the option to bring the contents to a freeze-like state.

“You make a great lab assistant,” Red Robin laughs and the two of them sprint off, determined to catch up to Batman.

Batman listens to them closing the distance between; one of them closer than the other. He can hear the steps of the further one dig in for more speed and power to catch up.

Oracle continues to narrate their movements.

“That building, up ahead.”

The air in the city is thick with a smoke that moves with them and the chaos begins to take its effect on the Bats, so consumed they are with finding their own. The closer they get, the less they know what to expect when they spot them.

“Any responses from the pings to their uniforms?” Robin asks.

Batman makes to reply, but Red Robin gets there first: “There’s been nothing so far.” Tim examines his gauntlet again while they continue their quick pace towards the unknown. An image of the city map appears on Tim’s forearm and he holds it out to Damian. “See? Nothing.”

They trek on, reaching for the building Jason had told them they’d been at before the bombs dropped. There’s debris everywhere: stone and asphalt and gypsum covering the path before them. Live announcements begin to clutter the airwaves; two of the four hospitals in the metropolitan area are open to receive patients. A call for currently licensed medical staff to help cover shifts begins to repeat. Bruce’s mind takes a sharp turn to accommodate the new information. Was it wrong for him to keep Leslie set to the side to receive his boys instead of helping the citizens of Blüdhaven? It’s too late now. He’s committed. He keeps his stride even and his face shows nothing but hardened determination; his thoughts of unease and second guessing locked and buried within. Batman turns the corner and he’s rewarded with the sight of the building in question. And through the scorched brass double doors of the entrance, he can see a familiar slope of shoulders in a worn, brown leather jacket.

Robin surges forward, leaping through the blown-out glass portions of the doors that lead to the lobby. On the ground, Jason has Dick laid out on a makeshift stretcher. He kneels over him, tying the last of the knots that secure Dick in place.

Jason looks up to see them approach, fingers still working the cord he’s turned into rope. His jaw is set, mouth pursed with an uptick in the corner to suggest a hardened playfulness. The trademark red helmet is missing and he wears a mask of attitude. But his eyes are tired and bloodshot, the vert of his irises ablaze and vibrant. Jason has survived an ordeal of some great magnitude.

Kneeling next to Jason, Batman quickly assesses Dick’s state of health. He knows he cannot linger on indecisions. He stands again and calls out orders, hoping his quick actions will give Dick his best chance at survival.

“I’m taking Nightwing to the Cave. Leslie is there waiting and aware of the circumstances. Red Hood, Red Robin, and Robin, make a fast sweep for people to help while remaining undetected by the authorities. Get out of the city before they spot you. I don’t want you caught by them while fear and tension are high…”

Batman trails off when he sees Dick stir. The man reaches his hand up, bending from the crook of his elbow where he’s free of the cording that restrains him. He softly calls out, “Jay.”

Jason looks from Batman down to Dick and instinctively grasps Dick’s hand.

“Bye, Jay,” Dick says.

“Bye, Dickie,” Jason responds. Batman notes the resignation in Red Hood’s voice.

Dick doesn’t let go of Jason’s hand, though.

Jason looks back to Batman, a hint of uncertainty in his already tired eyes. But the grip which Jason holds Dick’s hand is firm. Steadfast.

Bruce separates himself from Batman for the moment and makes another quick decision as he tabulates the behavior before him and the physical injuries he hasn't assessed of Jason's yet. He has made an error that needs fixing.

“Change of plans. Jason, you’ll take Dick to the Cave. I’ll sweep for clues and see Robin and Red Robin out safely.”

Jason nods his understanding. Bruce watches him give Dick’s hand a squeeze before letting go and taking position by Dick’s head. Batman positions himself at Dick’s boots and grips the emergency stretcher. Robin and Red Robin move to each side and together the four of them lift Dick off the ground, a procession through the debris-ridden streets. They make their way to the Batmobile, which yields to the Bat’s touch, and carefully place Dick inside.

“I’ll be there soon,” Bruce says to Nightwing, his first Robin, and his son always.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Dick whispers back.

“Leslie’s waiting for you at the Cave. Let Alfred dote on you, it makes him feel better.”

Dick lets out a wheeze of a laugh. “Thanks, Dad,” he says, his voice patronizing and with humor despite the strain it takes for him to form the words.

“Hrmmn,” Batman responds.

Over the comms in Batman’s cowl, Alfred’s voice interrupts.

“What have I told you about making that noise, Sir? And let the young masters know they must hurry.”

“Move,” Batman commands.

Jason turns to Tim. “Bring back my bike. It’s a few blocks that way in an optometrist's shop.”

“Sure, sure.”

“I need that bike, Double R.”

“I know. I’ll bring you the bike.”

Jason narrows his eyes, then throws Tim his keys.

“Keys, Hood? You’re so low tech.”

Jason moves around the vehicle to the driver’s side. “It’s how I keep you out of my stuff. Just try and hack your way past mechanical locks.”

“You know I’m good at lots of things besides electronics, right?”

“Yeah, I know. I figured if you’re bent on taking something of mine, I might as well annoy you by making it hard through antiquity. But if you don’t need the keys…”

Tim clutches the keys tighter in his fist and takes off.

Jason turns his gaze to Bruce. They pause for half a second, sharing an unspoken agreement. Bruce takes a step back from the Batmobile, conceding, and Jason hops in. He closes the cab, shutting everyone out. The vehicle ignites, and Bruce watches as it drives away. His children, again, are without him.

He knows they're in good hands -- they’re in each other’s. He’ll consider the ramifications later of what he’s witnessed between the two of them. Instead, he turns to Damian, his current Robin, who stands at the ready. He has his hands on his hips and wears a look of determination, mouth set hard on the face of a boy that reminds Bruce briefly of Jason. A few blocks away, a motorcycle rumble disturbs the city.

“Let’s get moving,” Batman says to his Robin.

The Dynamic Duo fly off in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: more of the usual, plus use of a syringe injection on an alien creature for scientific purposes. It's a brief mention, though.
> 
> Unbeta'd. Apologies for any mistakes. Please enjoy anyway :)
> 
> And guess what? I'm 100% confident that the next chapter will actually be the last xD


	7. Re-analysis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is caught up, Dr. Leslie Thompkins plays a cameo, and the end comes, finally. Time to bring it all home.

Bruce watches Leslie leave the Cave.

“I’m going to catch up on sleep,” she had said after taking one last look at Dick’s vitals. “I’ll be back down in two hours. Fetch me if something happens. And for God’s sake, don’t hit the bolus button on the autosyringe if he wakes up in pain. Just come get me.”

She didn’t wait for him to promise anything.

Alfred walks with her up the stairs and out of sight. He’s prepared a guest room for the good doctor and long time friend, plus a meal that she can take or leave. Her preference.

Bruce turns his attention back towards the glass-partitioned medical room, but he stays where he is. He’s been tossed out by Leslie once already. He doesn’t plan on crossing her again. No, detective work is where he’s needed, not in the med facilities. And yet, his attention lingers on what lies behind the thick glass separating the healthy from the injured. He has retrieved his family from the disaster, but still they feel far from him. He can make out the still form of Dick’s legs, defined beneath the thin blanket, and that’s it. The back of Jason’s looming bulk blocks out the rest of him as he occupies a chair the boy -- the man now -- has pulled to Dick’s bedside.

It’s no surprise to Bruce that Jason has greeted the rest of them with his back. He’s not said a word to anyone, with the exception of a few low muttered questions for Leslie and Alfred since stepping foot on the damp, water pocked floor. What does surprise Bruce is the fact Jason is still here, in the Cave, of his own volition. It’s another clue in the wake of others that Bruce has been filing away, all concerning the two oldest boys. He has long known what they meant to him. He had not ever been certain what the two had meant to each other. Bruce continues to watch Jason remain at Dick’s side and he settles on a conclusion. It had been on the periphery of his mind for some time now if he was honest with himself.

He’s drawn from his thoughts at a noise too close and finds Barbara Gordon at his right. She’s snuck up on him again.

“I’ve done the impossible,” she says. No hesitation, no greeting. “The impossible, plus more.”

“Show me,” Bruce says, satisfied with his conclusion concerning the med bay and ready to tackle whatever Oracle bestows on him.

Babs pulls out a thumbdrive from her pocket. She elbows Bruce out of the way and reaches for a USB port. He hears her fiddle with the connection until she leans back, eyes on the monitors, waiting.

The drive appears and she opens it. “See for yourself.”

From what he can see of the icons in front of him, Barbara seems to have collected mostly small-sized documents with a couple images thrown in. She clicks on one.

“Here we go. Guess who that is?”

The man’s face is partially obscured by the dim lighting. The surroundings are Gotham. The City Center to be exact.

“I’ve got him on CCTV in New York as well. It’s Stephen Edwards.”

Bruce knows that name.

Babs continues. “So we’ve got Mr. Edwards in both New York and Gotham. This one’s from three days ago, by the way. And see who he’s talking to?”

Bruce does see. The person is wearing a large, uncharacteristic shawl. But it doesn’t hide the hem of a well-tailored pencil skirt that falls at just below the knee or the flesh colored cap that masks the servos of a weaponized prosthetic.

“Mercy Graves,” Babs says.

Bruce definitely knows that name.

She moves on, this time to a corrupted document. “My favorite recovery right here.”

Batman reads what words are available to him. And some of the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. “This is a state of emergency preparation order,” he says.

Barbara nods. “It says that Luthor was going to alert the nations and the Justice League about an incoming meteor with, he writes, ‘plausible significant destruction to the planet, models showing a likely scenario taking place on US soil.’ And there’s an attachment for an isopleth map.” She scrolls down. “It shows Blüdhaven. Lex knew it was going to be Blüdhaven all along and first tried to prevent it. Also! It’s corrupted, but these lines here suggest that he’s heard about the aliens Dick and Jay fought against. He writes, ‘marauding band of a violent species.”

She shakes her head, and a few escaped ends of her long red hair swish back and forth. Barbara tucks them back behind her ear and continues, eyebrows scrunched in consideration. “But, instead of alerting the world, he deletes the document. Something changed his mind.”

Bruce has come to that thought as well.

He says, “The Lexcorp deep space sensors. They picked something up. His analysis showed something. He knows this species. He must have known whatever destruction occurred would come from the aliens themselves and not the meteor.”

“It slowed down,” Babs recalls. “There was no danger from the object. Only what was inside it.”

Bruce nods. “And so Luthor sends the Justice League away to insure the species making it through our atmosphere.” He scrolls through the document some more. “Luthor didn’t orchestrate this. He welcomed something that was already underway.”

“Well, Lex has always been an opportunist. I was just telling Tim earlier.”

They both look over to Tim’s usual workspace. They find him turning to more equipment, tools and instruments cluttering the lab bench.

“Better keep an eye on that kid, B,” Babs says.

Bruce watches Tim for a second longer before bringing his attention back to Barbara.

“Hmm. All of this was an elaborate plan concocted on a whim. I don't like how far he got. The cultists had uniforms. An emblem. And an entire city’s just gone through an air strike.”

“You think this plan had been in the works in case the stakes were high enough?”

Bruce wonders what kind of scenario that would look like. For the first time, none of his ideas seem plausible.

 

* * *

 

Tim holds the answer to this entire event in his hands but he does not know this yet.

He had carefully removed the creature from his pack only after Tim first parked Jason’s motorcycle with the other Cave vehicles and made his way to the upper level. He had then cautiously approached the medical bay, trying not to crowd or deter Leslie from her work. Initially, he found Bruce perched in a corner, firing off questions without preamble at the doctor anytime a suspicion came to mind.

“Bruce, you need to leave. Now,” she had said after his fourth question.

Tim had watched Bruce wordlessly march out of the area towards his workspace to brood and Tim peeked his head around the glass partition separating the med room from the rest of the Cave. He saw Dick laid out on the patient cot, unconscious to the world, while several lines of cannula tubing emerged from his body for intravenous therapy. Each of Dick’s wrists were lined for IVs, plus a larger junction at his chest. Tim followed the lines to where they all connected to a large, gray pump with a display and keypad. An auto infuser.

He continued to scan the room and found Alfred attending to Jason. Tim could see that Jason’s eyes were opened, but unfocused, like he could pass out any moment. Tim had looked back to Dick, but instead found Leslie focusing her attention on him.

“They’re okay for now,” she had said.

Tim just nodded.

“Dick’s got several IVs." She pointed in succession to each hand and the chest. "Fluids, TPN, pain meds and antibiotics; plus blood cell and plasma transfusions. But he’s handling it all like a champ.”

"That's good."

Leslie had then gestured with her head to Jason sitting in a chair while Alfred cleaned out wounds where Jay couldn't reach. "He's going to be okay, too. Pretty battered and he’s got a chest wound I want to keep an eye on, but okay."

"I imagine they went through quite the ordeal," Tim offered.

"Their bodies certainly prove so," Leslie had then amended.

Tim left it at that. 

Now, Tim focuses the compact NMR scanner over his specimen laid out on a workspace surface he hastily cleaned beforehand. His hand is slow, steady, and methodical; he's hoping for clear, enlightening images. He finishes scanning the creature and expectantly looks at his workspace monitor.

The images are shit.

Tim sets down his device, abandoning the dead alien on the table to peer closer to the images. They’re fuzzy. There’s a weird resonance interfering throughout, like a disease-riddled body. Tim thinks back. He enclosed the specimen in a bag and then it was securely placed in his pack. The pack is temperature controlled and set for freeze-like. Compounds are released to mimic a freezing environment without actually freezing the subject, which could lead to ruptures.

Tim tries to focus on the picture before him again. He spots no new information and admits defeat. Time to use different equipment.

Tim goes back to basics and uncovers the microscope.

He hears Leslie tell Bruce she's heading upstairs to sleep. Good. That means Dick and Jason are okay enough to be left to rest. Tim moves back to the alien creature, stiff and heavy and filled with epoxy, keeping everything that makes the alien tick exactly as it was when it was on its murder spree in Blüdhaven. Tim grabs a new pair of nitrile gloves, a scalpel, and soon he has a viable sample to work with tucked between glass slides. He flips a toggle switch and light from below illuminates the sample. He takes a breath and puts his eye to the ocular.

And still. He sees nonsense.

Some of it isn’t. The alien biology comes into focus and Tim roams over what’s before him. He sees cells and a liquid made solid from his earlier injection. A water based creature most likely, Tim mentally notes. But he also observes repeated anomalies that frustrate Tim. The cells present a fairly typical organic chemistry, yet he notices a crystalline structure embedded. It’s characteristic of epoxy at first glance and Tim feels an uncomfortable twist in his stomach at the thought that he may have sabotaged his own experiment. He racks his brain some more. Did the epoxy ruin all by contamination? Can’t be. He’s done this before. Several times over, all with good results. Besides, this is his favorite brand of epoxy.

Tim steps away from the sample and uncovers an even bigger microscope.

He starts the login process and looks for the equipment’s software on the lab desktop. The microscope is large: a scanning electron microscope outfitted with energy dispersive X-ray detectors. Tim means to blast the specimen with a focused beam of electrons.

He slices a new sample. A larger one. He puts it in a box Tim pulled out from a drawer beneath the SEM. He closes the lid and hits a button. There’s a faint sound of forced aerated material quickly dispersing over the sliced offering. Tim opens the box again and pulls out the sample.

It’s coated in gold.

He doesn’t want the electrons he shoots at it to electrically charge his sample and he doesn’t expect the alien creature to already have gold in its system. He inspects the thin layer, then places it beneath the SEM’s detector.

When he finally has his answer, he knows what to do.

On the monitor, Tim watches the electrons raster back and forth, like an old TV display, an intensity for every point that produces the micrograph. He runs the software’s analysis; lets it sort through the backscattering of particles and find the path to characterization, to an identity, to answers. He takes in the spectra in front of him.

Instead, what the SEM has given him are bizarre peaks of elements on the crystalline structures. It’s not epoxy. It’s not anything the SEM software can find. That’s concerning.

Tim widens the scope and tries running the peaks through Bruce’s database next. He finds a match. His heart starts to beat faster at the plots generating before him. The peaks, the implications,  _the amplifications,_ are so clear now. Tim turns to where Bruce and Barbara stand at a distance, still in conversation and studying some recovered documents Babs had already mentioned to him. They don’t know what he knows yet.

Over by the Med Bay, he can just barely make out Alfred in the Cave’s dim lighting reappear, making his way back to the patients. But Tim can hear Alfred’s voice just fine from his lab space.

“You’ll find you rest easier in a proper bed, Master Jason.”

“Thanks, Alfred, but I’m okay here.”

Tim frowns. Jason. Awake and alert. He’ll have to be careful when he passes by.

“You may also find me quite insistent on the matter,” Alfred replies.

“I’m not going anywhere.” A pause. “This is something I have to see through to the end.”

“You have questions for Master Dick?”

“Yeah. And they’re the kind of questions that need answers. Sooner rather than later, I think.”

“I understand. And I wish you good luck when he awakes, though I suggest allowing him a bit of recovery first.”

Jason gives a short laugh. “Will do. I don’t plan on harassing him as soon as he opens his eyes. But if I leave, I might find it easier to just stay gone. You know?”

Tim knows. He too has left things unsaid and paid for it. Hopefully not for much longer.

Alfred echoes Tim’s thoughts.

“I do understand, Master Jason. And if it’s any consolation to you, I believe the answers will be in your favor...barring your defensive pride getting in the way, of course.”

“I don’t know why I talk to you,” Jason says, but Tim can tell it’s an old statement with no malice.  
“I believe you speak with me because I’m the grounding figure in this family. I’m well aware of my role.”

“Thanks, Alf.”

“You’re welcome, my boy.”

Alfred; always so understanding of them all, despite the Bats’ penchant for landing themselves in situations well over their heads. He hopes for the favor of Alfred’s understanding for what he’s about to do.

Tim slips past without anyone the wiser, Jason's motorcycle keys still in his pocket.

 

* * *

 

Babs taps Bruce’s shoulder.

“Tim’s not here,” she says. “I haven’t noticed him for awhile.”

Bruce changes the screen viewer on his monitor to a clone of the lab space’s desktop. The internal memos and drafted documents abandoned by Lex have yielded all they can; he’s hoping to collect a few more missing pieces for his puzzle.

Bruce finds the leftovers of what Tim has been working on since arriving at the Cave and the results of Tim’s analysis leave him momentarily speechless.

“Oh my god,” Barbara says, peering closer to the graphs in front of her. “He used your database to find this?”

Bruce selects a few peaks, one at a time in succession. “That’s how he found a match, most likely. Look. All these amplifications. The stakes were definitely high enough for Luthor. These are chaos shards. I'm guessing he took a core sample from the meteorite containing viable fragments.”

“You mean when the shields were lowered," Babs says, then moves on. "Great. Apokolips is involved. Is Darkseid on his way?”

“Creatures from Apokolips are involved,” Bruce clarifies. “But Luthor doesn’t care about that. He has access to fragments of a chaos crystal now.”

Barbara turns to Bruce, done with the plots, done with Apokolips. “Do you think he knows what a chaos shard can do? Does he know what it’s done for us, personally? About Damian?”

Bruce accesses the comm system, selecting the frequency he wants.

“Luthor’s contacted me whenever he felt it most convenient,” he says. “It’s time for him to receive a call from Batman.”

Through the PA system, the sound of a call connecting surrounds them. They have walked to the brink and await what meets them.

“I know what you’ve done,” Batman says over the channel, aware that Luthor is on the other line.

A low sigh emits through the sound system. “Starting off with vaguely threatening. Typical. What can I help you with, Batman? You have the ear of the President of the United States.”

“I know you orchestrated this.”

“Really? I think you’ve finally gone insane. Why don’t you focus on the positive? Congratulations are in order. Your sons survived.”

“You killed Blüdhaven, Luthor.”

“The military acted without my authorization. Heads will roll for this, don’t you worry. General Rock will have much to answer for. But the destruction of Blüdhaven, as awful as that was, saved the rest of the nation and the world. We have to look at the big picture here.”

“Oh, I’m looking at the big picture here, Luthor. Superman and the Lantern Corp working together, off world. Blüdhaven’s growing voice and influence. The occultists with hand to hand combat training. Mercy Graves spotted in Gotham.”

Barbara turns to Bruce, giving him a quizzical look, but she waits to see how Bruce plays this out.

“Wow. I knew you had issues, but these accusations are preposterous. Besides. Mercy Graves in Gotham? She’s been my assistant since LexCorp and now as President of the United States. When would she have time to hang out in Gotham, Mr. Wayne?”

“This is a formal declaration that the Batman will be coming after you.”

“Look,” Luthor says. “In situations like these, sacrifices must be made. You, of all people, know this. If you’re going to take on a mantle, that makes you responsible for more than yourself.”

Bruce steels his shoulders and baits; it's time to test his theory. “Why does it feel like I’m the only one with kids on the line?”

“Maybe you’re just a terrible father. But don’t worry; I too have made the ultimate sacrifice when it comes to genetic offspring. Not that any of your clan care, despite how much you pretended to embrace him.”

“You didn’t care for him, Lex.”

“Don’t go slinging unfounded accusations, Bruce. It’s unbecoming.”

The line disconnects and a live emptiness emits from the comms. Bruce closes the line. From the shadows, Damian joins them. A quiet presence of solidarity.

“He called you ‘Bruce.’”

“Lex figured out my identity some time ago.”

“Superboy,” Barbara says. “This is about Superboy.”

“Yes.”

“A chaos shard,” Babs continues, “Tim! Peas and rice, Bruce, you know what this means? Tim’s going after Conner!”

Babs cuts her enthusiasm short, her brows furrowing as she stumbles across a new thought. “You lied to him,” she tells Bruce. “To Lex. About what we know. Why?”

“I lengthened Tim’s head start.”

“You’re going to help him?”

From the corner of his eye, Bruce sees Jason leaning against the frame of the Med Bay entrance, watching the proceedings. He keeps eye contact with Jason as he says, “I seem to have nothing better to do these days than chase after my children.”

He watches a smile break across Jay’s face just as a peal of laughter escapes from Babs. He smiles back at the young man who, against the odds, has remained part of the family. It’s a smile that says, _We’re okay, kid_.

And while Bruce feels at peace with the state concerning the personal lives of those he cares for, he knows he can’t dwell on what is right in this world when there is so much left for him to fight for.

“It won’t be easy,” he says to Barbara, to Damian, to Jason. “There’s a lot to fix, even without Superboy in the mix. Luthor allowed a violent, mercenary group from Apokolips to set limb on Earth’s soil. There will be widespread repercussions. Additionally, the people don’t care that the aliens came from Darkseid’s planet. They only care that they’re aliens. We could find ourselves in a political fight because of this.”

“So what’re we doing first, B?” Babs asks.

“Tch. You’re asking my father for instructions?”

“Quiet, pipsqueak. I already know what I’m doing. I want to see if B’s plans are compatible with mine.”

“We’re going after Tim," Bruce says. "And it’s going to take the whole family. It always does when it’s a chaos shard and the death of a loved one.”

“Drake will need our help with the chaos shard. If we succeed in bringing back to life the Kryptonian, our efforts to help will be needed that much more.”

Bruce looks Damian square in the face, searching for any hint of information. They have never spoken about it, but Bruce knows his son was haunted for months after returning to life. He doesn’t want to speculate on what Conner might go through.

“Agreed. Except we _will_ succeed. No _if_ , Damian.”

"How do you figure such a high success rate, B?"

"Because Luthor found it easier to steal chaos shard fragments from a random, violent alien invasion than to take mine."

Barbara nods appreciatively, then drapes an arm around Damian's shoulders. He scowls, but waits a full second before shrugging her off.

"Hopefully it doesn't come to using the Hellbat suit," she says.

"Drake will be disappointed."

Bruce looks at his family. Long has he observed them and only viewed them as students, as children. Now, they stand by his side of their own will, bringing their own unique skill sets to the table. Together they are more than formidable. They are a force that cannot be reckoned with.

“Let’s get a plan together and find Tim.”

 

* * *

 

_EPILOGUE_

 

Alfred steps away from the blueprints he’s memorized of a home purchased four years ago by a limited liability company in the name of a deceased family member of Lex Luthor’s. It’s the first clue of several that will lead the Bats to Superboy. They are six hours away from finding Kon-El's body. Twenty-four hours from resurrection. And they are one month away from Lois Lane's damning article that will lead to President Luthor's impeachment. Only then can justice be enacted.

Before the storm in which the Bats and Supers finally send Lex the farewell they've deemed appropriate, Alfred watches Bruce sit in the chair at the desk, arms folded across his chest, thinking.

“Sir?” Alfred prompts.

“Radio silence from Dick and Jason.”

The family is at a crossroads; ready to leap towards the next mission, but still recovering from what they've just accomplished.

Alfred says, “I’m sure they’re just resting. They’ve been through quite an ordeal. And Master Jason managed to effectively hide his injuries from us for a good while. He’s not as patched up as we initially thought," then to himself he adds, "Though the cheek of the boy to attempt to hide anything from me. Delirious. All it led to was a good scouring by myself and Dr. Thompkins." Alfred drifts into silence, recognizing that the master is in full brood. Bruce remains unchanged, arms still folded against himself, and Alfred let's out a soft sigh. Sometimes even the scariest of beasts needs some reassurance. "Give it time, Sir."

Bruce relents a little. “You know me, Alfred,” he says. “I like to keep close tabs. I want to know if there’s been any development; it’s been twelve hours since they left the Cave.”

“Which ‘development’ are you concerned with, Master Bruce? Medical? Or romantic?”

“Either. Both.”

“You could always accidentally make another quip over the communications line again. A sort of follow-up to the buffet comment.”

Bruce shakes his head. “Jay’s suspicious. He’ll either figure out I’m doing it on purpose to keep him part of the family or he’ll assume I’m losing my mental faculties and try to take the cowl from me.”

“And now Master Dick may be the one keeping him family?”

“Possibly. And therefore making me obsolete.” Bruce turns to Alfred and allows a half smile to appear on his face. “I miss the chatter,” he admits.

Alfred puts a hand on Bruce's shoulder and nods.

“As do I, Sir. As do I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter notes: there are brief mentions of IV therapy usage. Also, there's lab prep on Tim's alien specimen. NMR = nuclear magnetic resonance. It's what MRIs are, but people tend to get freaked out when they hear "nuclear" so hospitals don't call it NMR lol.
> 
> I got the phrase “peas and rice” from watching this hilarious TV edit of Hot Fuzz where they dubbed over the swear words. This one was my favorite xD
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this Batfam-centric work with a large side of jaydick. Seriously, thanks for reading :)
> 
> Oh! I don't know if chaos shards show up elsewhere in comics, but my use of them was shaped by reading the New52 issues of Batman/Superman and Batman & Robin. B&R uses the chaos shard to bring Damian back to life, and that's the purpose of the shard here too.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I wanted to write some jaydick hurt/comfort and ended up with this as my delivery vessel xD. Inspiration comes from The Authority comics (Midnighter and Apollo are sealed against these same types of extraterrestrials in Japan) and The X-Files episode, "Detour."
> 
> So many thanks to the jaydick community whose support, feedback, and encouragement makes writing these bats even more fun. Thanks for letting me share snippets of my writing and laughing at my jokes xD
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [stevieraebarnes](https://stevieraebarnes.tumblr.com/)


End file.
